


Alterations

by ANobleCompanion, Jacqueline Albright-Beckett (xaandria)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, DCBB 2014, First Meeting, First Time, M/M, Panty Kink, Tailor AU, the dog doesn't die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-21
Updated: 2014-10-21
Packaged: 2018-02-22 00:49:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2488307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ANobleCompanion/pseuds/ANobleCompanion, https://archiveofourown.org/users/xaandria/pseuds/Jacqueline%20Albright-Beckett
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Business is tanking, and Cas is facing the very real possibility that he may lose his livelihood as a tailor. Can one client, no matter how attractive, really make a difference?</p><p>  <em>Written for the Dean/Cas Big Bang 2014</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. part one

**Author's Note:**

> _Artist:[Jazzy2May](http://jazzy2may.livejournal.com/tag/alterations)  
>  title card by Jacqueline Albright-Beckett_

Dean’s fingers hovered over the keys of his laptop as his eyes scanned the page in front of him, disbelieving.

_“...give him the message his perversions are not welcome...”_

_“...do you really want this man touching you?...”_

_“...let your money talk and take it elsewhere...”_

A flicker of indignation kindled in Dean’s chest. So that’s what the man at Men’s Wearhouse had meant when he’d said, “Don’t listen to Yelp. Novak is the best tailor in the city.”

“If I hadn’t already decided to go there,” he muttered in irritation at the needlessly vitriolic reviews, “you can be damn sure I’m going now, just to spite you chucklefucks.” He plucked a Sharpie from the cup by the desk and scrawled the address on the back of his hand. If memory served, it wasn’t far; if he didn’t mind carrying the garment bag while he walked over to pick up Bailey, he could stop by between the Pattersons and the O’Neils.

Bailey was the lethargic corgi of F14 on Chester Avenue. Her owners had incorrectly hypothesized that if she got some more exercise, she’d perk up; as far as Dean could tell, her sedate waddle had not become any more energetic in the few weeks he’d been walking her. She was, however, waiting eagerly at the door as he unlocked it, and greeted him with a single polite bark.

“Hey girl,” he said, stopping briefly to scratch her behind the ears. She wiggled her tail-less rear end in canine glee. “You ready for walkies?”

He took her leash down from its hook, replacing it with the garment bag in the meantime, and Bailey grunted in approval as Dean led her out into the hallway, locking the door behind him.

Bailey was in rare form this morning. Dean grinned as she trotted next to him on stubby legs, tongue lolling out one side of her mouth. Maybe the budding spring weather was all the dog had needed. Dean knew it certainly improved his mood to see green emerging on the tips of the branches, and to forego at least a few of the layers the frigid weather had forced him to don during the past several months.

Bailey wasted no time taking care of business, and her trot did not last for long before she resolutely flopped to the ground, nose on her forepaws as she looked plaintively up at Dean. Dean frowned. He’d leave a note to have the Pattersons take her to the vet, just to make sure nothing was causing her discomfort. He’d had enough experience with longer dogs to know that spinal issues weren’t uncommon.

“C’mon, Bailey. Up you go. Home’s right there. You want jerky?”

Bailey’s ears perked up at the familiar bribe.

“That’s right. Jerky jerky,” Dean said temptingly. He’d given up on not sounding ridiculous ages ago.

It was enough to coax Bailey back to the apartment building and onto the elevator, though she whined as Dean tugged at the leash to head down the hallway, eventually giving in with clear reluctance. Thoroughly concerned now, Dean scribbled a quick note to let Mrs. Patterson know before tearing off a bit of Bailey’s favorite treat and tossing it to her. “Good girl,” he crooned as she wolfed it down, her appetite clearly unaffected. “I’ll be back later,” he promised her, glancing at her water dish before lifting the garment bag from its hook and slipping out the door.

The tailor’s shop was three blocks away. Dean shifted the garment bag over his shoulder so it wouldn’t catch on his backpack as he squared his shoulders.

“Right. Off to see Mr. Novak.”

 

* * *

 

 

There was a head of carefully tousled dark hair bent over a newspaper at the counter as Dean pushed at the door. It immediately looked up at the tinkle of the bell, and Dean stopped in his tracks.

Oh, shit. He was _hot_.

“Good morning,” the man said with a polite smile that made Dean swallow. “Can I help you?”

Dean stared. The man behind the counter raised an eyebrow before Dean realized he was waiting for a response. “Yes! Yes, I…” He brought the garment bag around in front of him, laying it gently on the counter. “My brother’s wedding is the day after tomorrow,” he said, focusing carefully on the zipper of the garment bag as he undid it, “and I let things go a little last minute.”

“I see,” the man behind the counter said, eyes flicking upwards from the suit on the counter to touch Dean’s briefly. Dean was treated to a glimpse of blue before the gaze focused back down on the suit. “Let me guess: hemming and pressing?”

“Well, it’s brand new, I don’t know if it needs to be pressed,” Dean began, but the look the man shot upwards at him was so scandalized that he nearly swallowed his own tongue. “Yes. Pressed. And the arms are long.”

“It’s off the rack, of course the arms are long,” the man mused as he lifted the suit on its hanger, letting the plastic of the Men’s Wearhouse garment bag fall away. He paused. “What I mean to say is, you’ve got a bit of shoulder to you,” he said in a less critical tone, meeting Dean’s gaze and holding it, “so any jacket that fits you in the shoulder is bound to be long in the arm. Especially this label.” He jerked his head at the suit. “Let’s see you in it. See what I can do.”

Dean blinked. “So _you’re_ the tailor? Not, like, his son?”

The man was already halfway to a curtained corner of the shop; he looked over his shoulder, brows drawn in a nonplussed furrow. “Of course I am.” He turned, thrusting his hand forward as Dean stepped closer. “I’m Cas. Cas Novak.”

Dean grasped the offered hand, unable to quell the tiny thrill at the touch. “Dean Winchester. Pleased to meet you.”

 

* * *

 

 

Slightly self–consciously, Dean smoothed the front of the suit jacket, watching his reflection in the mirror as he did so. Behind him, he could see Cas considering him very carefully, eyes darting from head to toe as he nodded slowly.

“Right. Jacket first.”

Seemingly from nowhere, he produced a square of chalk and began tapping points at Dean’s shoulders, leaving marks with a deft hand. “It’s a bit wide here at the shoulders. The seam should hit you here –” he drew a line and tapped it with a finger so Dean could see – “and it’s about half an inch off on both sides. But it fits across your upper back, which is probably why you chose it.”

Dean had chosen it because it had come down to the five hundred dollar suit or the two hundred dollar suit. He didn’t say so.

“The lapels should lie flat against your shirt collar back here – they’re not. And the seams at the shoulder are soft on one side, and practically roped on the other – the lining’s probably rolled on itself.” Cas stood back for a moment, lips pursed. “How much do you want me to do?” he asked abruptly after Dean began shifting, restless.

“What?” Dean asked.

“I can hem the pants and shorten the sleeves, and it’ll be ready to pick up this evening. Or you can let me keep it overnight, and I can make it fit like a suit should.”

Dean blinked. “Why wouldn’t I want the second option?”

“Cost,” Cas replied bluntly. “You can get away with the first option for forty-five. The second option...” Cas made an absent noise as he considered, his eyes drifting out of focus. “Hundred fifty. About.” His brow furrowed slightly. “Maybe more.”

Dean let out his breath in a whoosh. “This was on sale at Men’s Wearhouse,” he said plaintively. “Is it worth it?”

Shrugging, Cas reached over to snatch a magnet of pins from a nearby desk. “It’s off the rack. It’ll never look bespoke. But I can make it _fit_.” He absently stepped in front of Dean, reaching out to arrange the lapels so they were even. “In my mind, it’s always worth having clothes that fit well and show the wearer to an advantage.”

“And I’m sure your opinion has nothing to do with the paycheck you’ll be getting,” Dean observed wryly before it occurred to him that it sounded much less rude in his head.

“If the fee’s what’s stopping you, we can negotiate that,” Cas said seriously, slipping a pin into a fold in Dean’s sleeve. “Have you ever had anything fitted to you before?”

“No,” Dean admitted. This close, Dean could not help but catch traces of the tailor’s aftershave or cologne or whatever else he was wearing; it made him very suddenly aware of the man’s hands on him, the touch unerringly professional but still strangely evocative in its competence.

“Well.” Cas tucked another pin into the sleeve. “Hold your arms out – like this.” He raised one of Dean’s arms and squinted at Dean’s wrist. “This is something that always needs altering, with every suit – the sleeves should show about an inch of your shirt’s cuffs. Cufflinks?”

“No,” Dean said. He watched in the mirror as Cas circled him with the pins, his eyes focused intently on the suit as he pinched and gathered the wool at the seams and pinned it. Like a small miracle, the jacket was actually beginning to take shape in the reflection, even to Dean’s untrained eye.

“So,” Cas said, and the sudden break in the silence made Dean jump. “Take in here, here, and here –” he tapped at each enumeration – “shorten the sleeves and fix the lining at the shoulders. That’s the jacket.” He walked back around to Dean’s front. “Jacket off. Pants now.”

“Yes, sir,” Dean murmured, and was rewarded with a sidelong glance from Cas, the tips of the tailor’s ears turning an unmistakable red. Dean kept his grin to himself as he pulled his arms from the jacket.

“Wait,” Cas said, holding up a hand. “Is this the shirt?”

Dean paused as he lay the jacket over the back of a chair. “Yeah?” He looked down at himself; it was a plain white dress shirt, nothing particularly fancy or imposing about it, but Cas was shaking his head.

“It’s giant. That’s a good thing,” he rushed to add, “because it means I have something to work with. But look how it billows out at the back.” Dean found himself being attacked with pins, the shirt becoming noticeably tighter around his lower back. “It’s your shoulders again,” Cas was murmuring around pins between his teeth, “getting anything to fit over them is going to throw off the proportions of everything else. But I can fix that. Let me see your wrists.”

Nonplussed, Dean held his arms in front of him. Cas nodded as he plucked at the cuffs. “I take it you usually wear your sleeves rolled up, like the shirt you were wearing earlier?”

“Usually,” Dean replied.

“I thought as much. Your forearms are more muscled than most. It’ll make standard cuffs tight.” Cas was peering closely at the cuffs. “I can see how much seam allowance I have here. I might be able to make them more comfortable.” He looked up. “What kind of work do you do? I don’t typically see your arms on anyone but physical laborers.”

“Dog walker,” Dean replied, a small surge of pride at the words.

“Dog walker?” Cas repeated, taking half a step back to look at Dean appraisingly.

“My own business,” Dean confirmed. “Started it a year ago. Eight clients, twelve charges.”

Cas still looked unconvinced. “Dog walking is apparently more lucrative than I thought, then,” he said as he pulled a tape measure from the inner pocket of his jacket.

“Best job I’ve ever had.” Dean allowed himself to be maneuvered back in front of the mirror, moving carefully to avoid the pins in the back of his shirt.

“Mmhmm,” Cas replied, clearly distracted as his eyes scanned the lines of Dean’s trousers. He glanced up. “Do you mind if I take a look at how the fabric is draping at the hip?”

“Be my guest,” Dean replied, mystified.

He understood the request for permission as Cas knelt and began pinching the fabric at the front of the trousers next to the fly. “I know the style is baggier now,” he said absently, not seeming to realize that his face was inches from Dean’s crotch as he looked closely at the fabric, “but it always seemed sloppy to me. I think a pleat on either side...you’ve also got an atypical stance. The pleats will allow more room for your stride without looking like you’re an extra in a rap video.”

Dean swallowed and fixated his mind on trying to recall the most recent inductee into the Baseball Hall of Fame, rather than how Cas looked kneeling and gazing expectantly up at him, one hand still firmly gripping his pants. “You’re the expert,” he managed in a neutral tone.

If the tailor noticed the conflicting turmoil that Dean was very carefully keeping from his face, he didn’t say anything as he stretched the tape measure between his hands. “I’m old-fashioned,” he said, looking up again, leaning back to rest on his heels. “Most tailors don’t measure the inseam anymore. I find it provides a much more reliable fit than measuring the outseam and using a formula, especially in these new styles where the rise isn’t always dependable. Do you mind?”

“Inseam. That’s the one with the…” Dean gestured meaninglessly, but Cas seemed to catch on.

“Precisely. It can be a little awkward if you’re not prepared for it.” Cas shrugged. “It’s up to you.”

 _Lord, who art thou in Heaven, please don’t let me pop a boner in this dude’s face._ “Sure.” Dean shrugged in what he hoped was a casual manner.

Cas nodded, visibly pleased. “Good.” He stretched the tape between his hands again and placed one end very firmly high against Dean’s inner thigh. “Stand up straight for me. But relaxed.”

 _Right, we’re going to start wobbling now,_ said Dean’s knees. Dean suppressed a cough as he rolled his shoulders, willing himself to stand up straight – but relaxed. It was akin to when the doctor asked him to breathe normally, and he suddenly forgot how to breathe altogether.

“Thirty-six,” Cas said in a satisfied tone. He looked up, a tiny smirk on his face. “That’s what I’d guessed. I love being right. Other leg, now.”

Dean blinked. “What, they’re different?”

“Sometimes.” The tailor shifted the tape to the other inner thigh, and Dean swallowed. “But not this time.” He pulled the tape away. “I’m going to do the outer seam, and then you can slouch all you want.”

Dean nodded. He watched in the mirror as Cas took the comparatively uninteresting outer seam measurements, scribbling the numbers in a notepad as he went. “I’m giving you a half break,” the tailor said distractedly as he drew the tape around Dean’s ankle. “The front of the trousers will have a little bit of crease, but it’s a more casual length. This pattern is well-suited for it. And I’m not leaving cuffs, unless you want them.”

“I’m only really understanding one word in four,” Dean pointed out. “You do your thing. Whatever will look good.”

“You don’t need to worry about that,” Cas murmured as he set some pins into the hem of the pants, “just about anything would look good on you.”

It was all Dean could do to not cough. “I’m sorry?” he asked.

Cas froze, as though just realizing he’d said something aloud that he possibly shouldn’t have. “You have good symmetry,” he said, keeping his eyes on the notepad as he pushed himself to his feet, “and the strong shoulders give a solid appearance. Really, you’re built like the perfect mannequin, and that’s not an insult.” He finally lifted his gaze, a little sheepishly. “I should probably shut my mouth.”

“No, no, it’s cool.” Dean cleared his throat and looked down at himself. “We done?”

“Yeah.” The tailor was now a light shade of pink, and his eyes had dropped back to his pad of paper he held as though it contained the answers to the universe. “You can leave everything on the chair, I’ll get it. Careful of the pins.”

Dean only stuck himself once as he peeled off the dress shirt, and as he buttoned his flannel he turned slightly and frowned in the mirror. The back did billow a bit, even when it wasn’t tucked in. He shrugged and hoisted his backpack onto his shoulder.

“So when should I stop by again?” he asked as he approached the desk.

Cas looked up, having clearly composed himself while Dean had changed. “Tomorrow evening should work.”

Dean ran over his schedule in his mind and winced. “How late are you open? Friday’s always a full day for me. Can I just pick it up Saturday before the wedding?”

The way Cas’s eyes widened was almost comical. “I’d really prefer you pick it up the evening before,” he said carefully, “just in case there are more adjustments I need to make.” He reached out and pulled a business card from its brass holder on the counter and scribbled a number on it. “That’s my cell. If I’m closed, give me a ring and I’ll come down.”

“Nah, I’m not gonna make you come all the way back to work,” Dean began.

“It’s not that far to go,” Cas interjected with a grin. “Trust me. I live upstairs.”

“If you’re sure.” Dean shrugged and pocketed the card. “I’ll be seeing you tomorrow, then.”

“Good. Bring the shoes you’ll be wearing, if you can.”

Dean blinked. “Shoes. I should get shoes today.”

Cas raised an eyebrow. “You really like leaving things until the last possible moment, don’t you?”

“I prefer to call it ‘thinking on my feet,’” Dean replied with a grin. “See you tomorrow.”

 

* * *

 

 

Dean leaned against the chain-link fence, sipping at his coffee as he watched the Greene’s beagle dart around the dog park in unadulterated canine joy.

“Morning, stranger,” a cheerful voice called, and Dean turned, grinning.

“Morning, Charlie,” he replied as the woman leaned down to let her own dog, a thoroughbred mutt with a missing ear, off his leash. “I was thinking you weren’t going to make it today.”

“I almost didn’t.” Charlie straightened as her dog took off. “The audition I was supposed to have today? Canceled. But I took the day off for it, so I figured, I’ll use it.” She shrugged. “The world of coffee can survive without me today.”

“Why’d they cancel?” Dean asked, turning his coffee cup so she couldn’t see the rival coffee shop’s logo on the side. Not that he thought Charlie would mind; the coffee shop gig was only to fill the days between her part-time job as a bicycle courier and her sporadic jobs as an actress.

“No funding for the show,” Charlie replied glumly. “They’re going to try again next season. In the meantime they’re just going to rehash what they already have the costumes for.” Charlie rolled her eyes. “If I have to do _Oklahoma!_ again I’m going to scream bloody murder.”

Dean shut his eyes. “If I have to _see_ _Oklahoma!_ again I’m going to scream bloody murder,” he said.

He didn’t even try to duck out of the way of the punch she aimed at his arm. “There is nothing that says you have to come to every show I do.”

“Consider it my penance for hitting on your girlfriend.” Dean settled back against the fence. “How’s the long-distance thing doing, by the way?”

Charlie shrugged, instantly more subdued. “It’s all right. We’ve been playing League of Legends most nights. Schooling noobs, phat loot, you know how it is.”

Dean didn’t have any idea how it was. “Sure. But everything is okay? No more dramatic three am meltdowns?”

Charlie scoffed, pulling her hair behind one ear. “That was a one-time thing. We’re good now. Everything is good.”

“Good.” Nodding, Dean took another long pull at his coffee, eyes following his charge as he enthusiastically chased a German Shephard five times his size around a mound of wood chips. “Is it weird to date your tailor?” he asked suddenly.

Charlie looked over sharply, brows furrowed. “Where did that come from?”

Dean looked down at his shoes, not sure why it was so hard to find words. “I went to a tailor yesterday. My suit for the wedding? The wedding you bailed on me for? That wedding?”

“I didn’t _bail_ –”

“I’m kidding.” Dean waved a hand dismissively. “You’ve got a thing. It’s cool. But – so this tailor. This really hot tailor. Would it be weird?”

Charlie pursed her lips. “How hot?”

Dean let out a forceful breath. “When he measured my inseam I seriously thought porno music was going to start playing.”

“It’s a he.” Charlie bit her lip. “My little Dean is growing up.”

“Shut up.” Dean raised the cup to his lips again, emptying it. “Do I ask him out before or after I pay him?” He shook his head. “That sounds horrible.”

“I’d say whenever you can work it into conversation,” Charlie said. “And no. I don’t think it’s weird. If nothing else, it’ll make a great story, even if he says no.”

Dean winced. “Well, hopefully, that won’t happen,” he said under his breath. With a sharp whistle he caught Casper’s attention, and the beagle trotted over, tail wagging. “We gotta get going. I’ve got five more today.” He stooped to clip the leash to the beagle’s harness. “And thanks. I just needed an outsider’s opinion.”

“Anytime.” Charlie winked at him. “Let me know how it goes.”

 

* * *

 

 

“So? What do you think?”

Dean ran his hands down his front, unsure of how to express the delight of feeling the suit drape his frame just right. Even the fabric felt different – probably because it had been pressed, the stiffness from the store softened, if not completely free of starch. “I think maybe I should have combed my hair first.” He carded his fingers through it, trying to tempt the short strands into something resembling order. “It looks awesome. I wish I’d taken a ‘before’ picture.”

The tailor was standing behind him, nodding in approval. “Worth it, do you think?”

“Every penny.” Dean turned to face him. “I do have another few favors to ask.”

Cas cocked his head to the side. “Do tell.”

Dean reached into his backpack he’d leaned against the mirror. “Which tie?”

The tailor’s eyes flicked between the two choices Dean pulled out before he immediately pointed. “That one. Burn the other.”

Dean grinned. “Tell me how you really feel.” He tossed the reject onto his backpack. “I bet you know all sorts of fancy knots, too.”

“You’re not wrong.” Cas shot Dean an arch look. “I assume you’re asking me to show you some.”

“That would be favor number two.”

Cas nodded, pointing at the mirror as he loosened the tie around his own neck. “Turn around. I’ll walk you through one of my favorites.”

Dean stood with the two ends in his hands, watching expectantly. “You’re gonna school me in this, aren’t you?”

Cas chuckled, the sound kindling a warmth in Dean’s belly. “No, this one is easy. Here. Up and through, down and around.” He paused, waiting for Dean to catch up; Dean’s fingers were suddenly refusing to cooperate, and he fumbled as Cas walked him through several more loops. “Tuck this end into the collar: you won’t be needing it. And you’re done.” He eyed Dean’s lopsided knot in the mirror. “It may take some practice. Look it up on YouTube; it’s called the Trinity knot.”

Dean studied Cas’s perfect knot in a sidelong glance. “It’s better than whatever lazy knot I know.”

“Half-Windsor, probably,” Cas supplied.

“Right.” Dean took a breath, the muscles in his back tensing as though he were about to jump from a height. “Last favor. I promise.”

“Yes?” Cas looked up politely, tucking his tie back behind his jacket.

“My plus–one ditched me for the wedding. You game?”

It was amazing how quiet the shop was. Dean hadn’t noticed it before. He could almost hear his heart beating as he waited for an answer.

It was in the blue eyes before it even made it into words, the lines around them softening from their initial surprise into a subtle regret that twisted around Dean’s ribs like ice. “I – no. I’m sorry.” He sounded like he meant it. “I don’t do weddings.”

Dean forced a smile to his face. “Why not? No pressure at this one, I promise.”

A distant expression passed over Cas’s face as he absently pulled a pin out of a pincushion and pushed it back in. “Weddings are…awkward for me.” He bit his lip, as though trying to decide whether to continue. “It’s a long story that you don’t even want to hear,” he said finally.

Dean cleared his throat. “Maybe I will someday.” He reached into his pocket for his wallet before remembering that he was still wearing the suit. “I, uh, I’ll go get changed. Back into regular clothes.”

Cas nodded. “Leave it on the chair. I’ll bag it up for you.” He smiled faintly. “It needs to be folded properly to keep the creases.”

“Right.” Dean resisted shoving his hands in his pockets and held his head high as he strode to the curtained corner. It wasn’t a big deal. There was no need to be so disappointed.

Cas did not look surprised at the twenty that Dean slid across the counter after he signed the receipt, but he did look pleased; Dean had learned early on the delight in receiving tips. He hesitated, and then also offered the business card Cas had written on before. Cas took it, brow furrowing.

“It’s got your personal number on it,” Dean explained. His throat felt oddly tight. “I figured…” He shrugged, unsure of where the sentence was going and having no real desire to finish it.

Cas licked his lips, turning the card over in his fingers before holding it out again. “Keep it,” he said, locking eyes with Dean. “It might be useful.” He looked down hurriedly. “In case you need to get hold of me after hours.”

As Dean fished for something bright and witty to say, Cas turned and took the garment bag down from the hook behind him. “Have a great time at the wedding,” he said sincerely, handing it across the counter. “And I hope I’ll see you back sometime.”

“Thanks,” Dean replied, the ghost of a smile on his lips as he turned and pushed out the door.

Now that he thought about it, he did have a few shirts at home that could use some attention.


	2. part two

Cas waited until Dean walked out of the shop before slumping onto his stool and dropping his face onto his arms over the counter. What was he doing? Dean was a _client_. He couldn’t afford to flirt with clients, no matter how attractive they were. He was a professional with a reputation to uphold – or repair.

Cas groaned into his arms at the unfairness of it all. Six months ago, he’d run a steady, if not thriving shop with several regulars and frequent recommendations from local businesses. He supposed he should thank Balthazar for sending Dean his way. Dean had said the suit came from Men’s Wearhouse, and no one else had continued to point potential clients to his shop after the North Star Baptist Church had run its regretfully successful Yelp campaign against him.

Raising his head, Cas looked around the empty reception area and sighed. Hopefully business would pick up soon. Scandals could only last so long, right? Sooner or later, the religious zealots would find another target and leave him alone. He just hoped he could keep his head and his business above water long enough for it to happen.

A shrill ringing of his shop phone startled him out of his reverie. Reaching over, Cas picked it up, hopeful for another job so soon after a new client to prove him right.

“Novak Tailoring and Fitting, how can I help you today?” he asked.

“Oh honey, that name is so _dry_ , no wonder you can’t get more business in that shop of yours,” a woman’s voice filtered through the speaker, a hint of laughter clear.

Cas let a small smile warm his tone. “Good evening, Pamela. I’ll keep your advice in mind, but I don’t think calling my business anything but what it is would improve matters. I take it if you’re calling, the company has decided on a production?”

“Yeah, sorry about this, sweetheart, but we just couldn’t get the funds up to do something new. We’re going to have to go with _Oklahoma!_. We’ll still need you for small alterations and repair; those costumes are getting a little ragged at this point.”

Cas closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, working hard not to let his frustration and disappointment leak into his voice.

“I understand. If the money’s not there, there’s nothing you can do. I imagine your crew was thrilled to hear you’re doing their favorite production again.”

Pamela laughed. “It was a near mutiny and you know it. Once we get the costumes out and looked over, I’ll let you know what to expect. I just wanted to give you the heads up that it’s not going to be a ground up performance.”

“I appreciate that. I’ll talk to you soon.”

Cas hung up the phone, shoulders drooped as he looked around his empty shop again. Even before regular business had dried up, he’d taken on occasional side work with a local theater group altering, and when necessary, designing and making their costumes to pick up some extra income. It wasn’t much, but it did help pay the bills, and in recent times had been the only thing keeping the lights on. More and more frequently, however, the company didn’t really need him.

Cas knew they could probably get away without altering any of their costumes for _Oklahoma!_ They’d done the production several times in the past, to the point that the cast knew their lines cold and everyone already fit into their garments. The fact that Pamela was still insisting on giving him even a meager opportunity to work this one was a generosity on her part. It was one he appreciated.

Looking at his watch, Cas realized he was past closing time by about thirty minutes. Resigned, he walked to the door to flip the sign and lock up.

 

* * *

 

 

The next morning, Cas busied himself by thoroughly cleaning the shop and resolutely _not_ thinking about his newest client currently getting dressed in a perfectly fitted suit that hugged and accentuated each curve and plane of his body. If a stray thought along those lines did make an appearance, Cas told himself he was just thinking about the clothing. His interest was purely professional.

Still, Cas would love to see Dean in motion in that suit. When Dean had tried it on the night before, Cas had felt his mouth go dry. He’d suddenly had the urge to beg Dean to let him design him a custom suit from scratch. If the man looked that good in something off the rack, Cas _knew_ he would look better than any model at fashion week in something made just for him, by someone who knew what they were doing.

Cas was busy cleaning the mirrors in the dressing room when he heard the bell jingle over the door, alerting him to someone out front. For brief second, he felt his heart leap to his throat. The wedding wasn’t for another few hours. Maybe Dean had stopped by to see if Cas had changed his mind.

He hadn’t changed his mind, of course. Of course not. He couldn’t go out with a client, and he hadn’t lied about his aversion to weddings, either. But if Dean asked again, Cas really wasn’t sure he would be able to say no a second time.

When he stepped into the front of the store however, he was confronted with a familiar face that was _not_ Dean’s.

“Clarence!” the womansaid, with a wide, almost predatory smile.

“Meg,” he acknowledged, resisting the urge to pop a few aspirin before the conversation got underway. “I see you’re back from...Barcelona, wasn’t it?”

“Barcelona, Madrid, Cordoba, all of Spain, angel boy. That’s the joy of going where you want, when you want.”

Cas scowled at the start of their long running and familiar argument. “I suspect the reason you’re here isn’t to regale me with your latest exploits. Can we please get to the point?”

Meg’s smile slipped. “Not a social visit.” Her expression was one bordering close to sympathy. Cas believed it. Over the years they’d known each other, Meg had watched him give up a lot to open his shop. “You’re two months behind on both your rent and your lease, Castiel.”

Cas sagged. He’d known this was why she was here. He was lucky she hadn’t called him up from her trip to push him about it. “I know. I can pay you one month now. I’m close on the second. I just need a few more days. The theater group has a show lined up and I’ll get some extra off of that.” He cringed internally, remembering he’d be getting significantly _less_ off of that than he’d previously hoped.

“Look. I’m not gonna kick you out of your apartment. We’ve got too much history for that. But I gotta make a profit off this space somehow. Have you thought about closing the doors? Getting a job at Nordstrom’s or something?”

Cas narrowed his eyes. “I am not going to lose my business because one misguided church group has decided that they have a say in how I should live my life,” he said with a lot more confidence than he felt about the situation.

“Stubborn pride isn’t going to accomplish anything other than you going hungry. You know that, right? Is this cause really worth fighting?”

Cas glared at her. “I have every right to run my business, just like any other human being. I’m good at what I do. And this dry spell can’t last forever. This will die down soon. I had a new client just this week, in fact.”

Meg snorted. “You do know how the internet works, don’t you, Clarence?” Cas resisted rolling his eyes as she continued. “Once something’s there, it’s there to stay.”

“Only until I can garner enough positive reviews to drown out a few narrow-minded asscravats.”

Meg stopped and looked at him for a moment, unable to resist the curl of her lip at the novel insult, but didn’t comment on his choice of wording. “And where, pray tell, are these reviews coming from?”

“I _do_ have clients. Like I said, I had a new one this week.”

“Great!” Meg said, sarcastic enthusiasm clear as she pulled her phone from her pocket, “Let’s see what they have to say.”

Cas shifted nervously. “I doubt he’s had time to post a review. He picked up the suit last night for his brother’s wedding today.”

He also highly doubted Dean would be inclined to give him a good review after Cas had turned him down.

Meg’s eyebrows shot up in surprise as she looked at the return results. “Well, apparently you did something to impress him, because he sure as hell left a glowing commentary on your skills.”

Cas froze. Dean had left a review?

He listened nervously as Meg read Dean’s comment aloud.

> _I went to Novak’s Tailoring and Fitting on the recommendation of a tailor at Men’s Wearhouse. He told me to ignore anything else I might hear about the place and I’m glad I did. Novak was professional, his prices more than reasonable, and the service was fast. I was a little more than last minute getting everything together for my brother’s wedding, and Novak not only made it fit better than anything I’ve owned in my life, he did it in two days. This was my first experience having anything tailored. He walked me through what was needed, gave me the options for pricing, clearly explaining what the difference was and never pushing for more than I was willing to have done. He was even willing to accommodate my schedule when I needed to pick up the suit late. If I ever need to have anything else tailored, he has my business and he should have yours too._

Meg’s gaze shifted back up to Cas, respect clear in her eyes. “Geez, Clarence, what did you do? Blow the guy?”

Cas bristled. “Yes, Meg. Because the best way to avoid implications that I’m unfit to do my job because of my sexuality is to engage in a sexual act with the first new client I’ve had in two weeks.” He chose to refrain from commenting on how tempting the potential for such a scenario had actually been.

Something must have shown on his face – Meg knew him far too well – because she just smirked in response. “Well, whatever you did, apparently he was satisfied. Hopefully he’ll tell all his friends at that fancy wedding about his fabulous new tailor.” She paused and looked at him consideringly. “Fine. I’ll let you back pay a month and give you one more month’s leeway. But that’s it. If you still aren’t above water, I’m pulling the lease, capiche?”

“Thank you, Meg. That’s...more than generous of you.”

“Don’t thank me yet, angel. I still think you’re crazy. One more month is just gonna make it all that much harder for you,” Meg said before turning on her heel and pushing out of the shop.

Once she had disappeared from view, Cas walked briskly over to the computer behind the register. With a few deft clicks on the keyboard, he’d pulled up Yelp to read Dean’s comment for himself, still somewhat unbelieving that the man had taken the time to write it at all.

As his eyes skimmed the review, a particular phrase jumped out at Cas.

_He told me to ignore anything else I might hear about the place and I’m glad I did._

So Dean had known about the comments and chosen to come in anyway. Cas wasn’t entirely sure how that made him feel. On the one hand, it was good to know the comments weren’t keeping everyone away. On the other, Dean had asked him out. Had he come in expecting Cas to be an easy pick up _because_ of the comments? Had the whole thing been an act? Cas really didn’t think so – especially since Dean had still written the review, despite Cas turning him down. Nevertheless, it made him slightly more wary about the encounter.

Closing out of the tab, Castiel resumed his cleaning, resolutely _not_ thinking about Dean Winchester.

 

* * *

 

 

Despite business having slowed significantly, Cas did still have a few loyal clients who came in from time to time, even one or two Cas suspected came to see him more than necessary because they knew he was down on his luck. Cas was grateful for them. If they had stopped coming, Cas would have been out of business in under three months rather than the six he had managed to stretch so far.

The Tuesday after he’d last seen Dean, Inias, one of his most loyal customers and a family friend, came in to have the waistline on an older pair of slacks taken in.

“So that diet Hester has you on is working then?” Cas asked with a grin.

Inias sighed dramatically. “Unfortunately. Which means it’s likely to continue. I do admit in the years since we got married I might have...let go a little. Who doesn’t though, right?”

“Well, there’s not much to take in here. A small dart in the front on each side should do you. I can have that done by tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Cas. Though I don’t know how much is going to be left of me by then.”

Both men were still chuckling over the feeble jest when the bell over the door chimed, signaling another customer.

Cas quickly excused himself, allowing Inias to change while he greeted whomever was out front.

Cas pulled up short when he realized it was Dean.

He blinked hard once or twice as though to confirm the tall, freckle-faced man was in fact in front of him rather than a hallucination. Dean didn’t vanish. Instead, he smiled at Cas sheepishly, one hand in his pocket, the other up near his shoulder, his fingers looped through the hooked end of several hangers carrying what seemed to be shirts.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean started. Cas was almost positive he heard a slight nervous tremor in the other man’s voice. “Sorry I didn’t make an appointment. I’m still not used to this whole ‘tailoring’ thing. Not really sure what the protocol is. I didn’t even think about an appointment until I was on my way over here. I know you didn’t seem all that busy last time, but I guess I shouldn’t just assume…”

Cas smiled inwardly as he realized Dean was rambling. Holding up a hand, he stopped the flow of words before Dean could say anything else.

“It’s not a problem, Dean, don’t worry. I’m finishing up with a customer now, but I’ll be happy to help you in just a few moments. Can you wait?”

“What? Oh, yeah, sure, man. Thanks. Really.” Dean said, flushing slightly and stepping back almost as though unsure of exactly where to stand so he wasn’t in the way.

Something about the movement amused Cas. He suspected Dean was not typically the kind of person to be unsure of himself. To see him discomfited with something as simple as getting his clothes altered endeared him a little to the tailor.

While Cas waited for Inias to finish up in the dressing room, he went ahead and prepared the ticket. Normally, he would be happy to do it while chatting with his friend, taking the opportunity to spend a little more time talking about their families. Today though, _Dean_ was in the shop.

Cas told himself he was simply being efficient. It wasn’t good business to let a customer wait. Satisfied with his rationale, he glanced over his shoulder and smiled when Inias stepped out of the dressing room.

“I left the pants on the hook in the back, is that alright, Cas?” Inias asked, walking towards the counter and throwing a curious glance in Dean’s direction. He gave a small polite nod, which Dean returned while shifting his weight from one foot to another.

“That’s fine, Inias. Here’s the slip. Make sure you put it in your wallet this time. Hester will have your head if it goes through the wash again.”

Inias laughed. “That she will, thank you.”

Still smiling, Inias walked out of the shop, throwing a, “See you tomorrow, Cas,” over his shoulder and giving another small nod to Dean.

Cas kept his eyes glued to Inias as he left, but once the door was closed, he no longer had an excuse not to meet the green eyes now looking at him from across the counter.

He smiled at Dean, the expression slightly forced, but a little more at ease than when the man had first walked in. This was _his_ shop, he was good at what he did, and he was a professional.

“Welcome back, Dean. What can I help you with today? Another wedding so soon?”

Dean chuckled and some of the tension appeared to ease from his shoulders. “Nah, nothing like that. It’s just, you know, I said I’d never had anything tailored before. And that shirt you did for the wedding? Man, I’ve _never_ had anything fit me that well. I got a ton of compliments on it – even from my sasquatch of a brother. I just figured, you know, it couldn’t hurt to have a couple more shirts that fit like that.”

Cas smiled fully now, with no effort. “And yet another person is converted to the wonder that is a well-tailored wardrobe.”

Dean laughed. “Not gonna lie, you made me look good.”

Cas pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes, “I’m not sure how much help you needed there.”

Once he heard the words leave his mouth, Cas froze, his brain seizing and his eyes widening slightly. Had he seriously just blatantly flirted with a customer? But Dean didn’t seem to mind. He just continued chuckling, though Cas did detect a slight flush to the back of his neck.

Relieved that Dean wasn’t offended, Cas relaxed. “Well, let’s take a look at what we have here today. Why don’t you head back to the changing room and put on the first shirt? I already have your measurements on file, so this will really just be pinning and tucking. Shouldn’t take too long.”

“Sure, man. Thank again for letting me just drop in like this.”

“I promise you, Dean, if it was a problem, or I couldn’t manage it, I’d let you know. Right now, I welcome all the business I can get.” Cas winced. He needed to get control over his mouth. The last thing he needed to be doing was discussing his business problems with a client, even if Dean had seen the bad reviews already.

Fortunately, Dean didn’t seem to notice anything unusual and he just nodded before heading back to the dressing rooms. Cas put his hands flat on the counter and took a deep breath. He had to get a hold of himself. He gave Dean a few minutes to change before heading back.

When Cas pushed aside the thin drape that separated the front from the more private back dressing area, his step faltered for an infinitesimal second. Not nearly long enough to be noticed by the man currently standing in front of his mirror, shirt tails out, cuffs loose, and buttons only done up to his mid chest. Though Cas had suspected the muscles from Dean’s trade extended beyond his arms, having the visual confirmation made him swallow hard.

_You’re a professional, dammit_ , he reminded himself sternly. He pushed the distraction of Dean’s pectorals to the back of his mind. He decided to concentrate on enjoying the fact that he had a perfectly formed model in front of him. It had nothing to do with sexual attraction. Dean’s proportions were completely symmetrical — something rarely seen in the garment world. It wouldn’t take much to have him looking fabulous in anything. The man could probably make a burlap suit look like an Armani.

As Cas concentrated on the clothes, he began to relax. While it was certainly enjoyable to imagine Dean in a snug waistcoat and jacket – English cut would probably work best, being more fitted at the waist than the typical boxy American style – this enjoyment was as much about the construction and the craftsmanship as about the man.

“So, uh…” Dean smiled sheepishly and held out his arms as though to show the shirt off for inspection, still clearly not accustomed to the idea of having something tailored.

Cas pursed his lips as his eyes evaluated the fabric in front of him. “Face the mirror, please, and finish buttoning to the point you plan to typically wear it.”

Dean flashed a smile and moved to comply while Cas reached behind him for his fabric chalk and magnetic pin holder, pausing to attach the tool around his wrist for easy, hands-free access to the pins.

Once Dean was in place, Cas moved behind him to start with the back panel of the shirt, pulling the material between his fingers at the back and side seams to get an estimate of how much would need to be taken in. He eyed it critically before bending down to start the pinning process.

“Thank you, by the way,” he said, glancing up from his position near Dean’s waist, looking him directly in the eye.

Dean shifted, as though Cas’s gaze made him slightly uncomfortable. “What for?”

“For the review you left. I’m sure you had plenty to do between picking up the suit and your brother’s wedding. It wasn’t necessary, but it was greatly appreciated. Your words helped a lot.”

“Really, it wasn’t a big deal. I can’t stand asshats who use the internet as an excuse to bully. I didn’t do anything but tell the truth. And seriously. I can’t _tell_ you the number of comments I got on my suit Saturday. You’d think I’d never made an effort to look nice, the way people were reacting.”

Cas tilted his face back down to the seam he was taking in, but his hands remained motionless and he continued to watch Dean through his lashes. “Still. I appreciate it. Especially after turning down your invitation.”

He saw Dean frown slightly. “What does that have to do with good service? I told you, there were no strings attached to that.”

Cas looked up again, lips twisted sardonically. “You’ve read the other reviews I’ve gotten lately. I’m not accustomed to people separating my personal choices from my business.”

Dean’s frown deepened, but Cas could tell the anger in it wasn’t directed at him. “Seriously, man. I meant what I said. I had at least three people ask for your information at Sammy’s wedding just based on what they saw. I didn’t even have to _say_ anything. Your work speaks for itself.”

Cas was quiet. He wasn’t sure how to respond to that, and he couldn’t help the warm feeling that spread over him at hearing Dean’s words. After a moment of silence, he changed the subject. “So, any interesting stories about the wedding?”

Dean laughed, “Of course. It was a _wedding_.”

Thirty minutes passed easily as Cas efficiently took in each of the shirts and listened to Dean’s story about a bridesmaid who had drunk a little too much wine at the reception and proceeded to take over the karaoke stage – with the small detail that there had been no karaoke.

The conversation was easy and friendly, the banter comfortable. Far too soon for Cas’s liking, he discovered he was done with the necessary work and it was time to write up Dean’s ticket. He did so as the other man changed back into his street clothes. Aside from Inias’s pants, Cas didn’t have any orders waiting and no scheduled appointments for the morning, so he estimated he’d be able to get the shirts adjusted by the next afternoon.

He ignored the small thrill at the idea that he would get to see Dean again so soon. More than just being extremely attractive and kind, he’d started to realize Dean was also smart, funny, and charming – a lethal combination that seemed to draw Cas in. He could acknowledge to himself that he wanted to spend more time in the other man’s company. He just couldn’t ever let it happen.

He was nodding to himself in resolve as Dean sidled up to the counter for his slip. “I should be able to have your shirts done by three tomorrow. You’re welcome to pick them up any time after,” Cas said, sliding the slip across the counter.

Dean looked surprised. “Seriously? That’s really fast. This isn’t a rush job like the suit, man.”

Cas felt the corner of his mouth quirk ever so slightly and he raised an eyebrow at Dean. “I’m not exactly swimming in business at the moment. When it picks up again,” Cas scowled slightly, “ _then_ orders might take a little longer. As it is, there’s no use making a customer wait just because they’re used to waiting. I need to do something to keep busy, after all.”

Dean nodded. “Makes sense. Don’t know that I’ll be able to come in tomorrow to pick them up, though. I have a few clients that run later in the evening on Wednesdays. Can I pick them up Thursday morning? What time do you open?”

Cas squashed a flare of disappointment that he wouldn’t see Dean the next day after all. “Don’t worry about it. I open at nine on weekdays. Closed on Sundays.”

Dean nodded. “I’ll be here.” His eyes brightened suddenly, as if something had just occurred to him. “Oh – could I get a stack of your business cards? I can hand a few out for you. Most of my clients are higher end business people – it’s why they don’t have time to walk their dogs themselves. I bet they’d love to have a reliable tailor. I’m pretty sure I heard one muttering something about his tailor being ‘eaten alive.’ I didn’t want to know –” he paused, a brow wrinkling – “Really didn’t want to know, so I didn’t ask. But the dude claims to be the king of the publishing world, so I’m sure he’s got tons of suits and things.”

Cas looked at Dean in amazement. “Are you sure? It’s not necessary…”

“Cas, you just said you need more business. I can’t think of a better way to stick it to those internet morons than have you succeed. It’s not costing me a thing and I’m happy to do it.”

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas said, trying to lace his voice with as much gratitude as he was able. He opened the drawer to the side of the register where he kept his spare cards and handed Dean a small stack.

Dean snorted. “Don’t thank me yet. Dude’s loaded, but he’s an ass. And his dogs are hellhounds, I swear.” He held up a hand in farewell. “See you Thursday.”

 

* * *

 

 

Cas sat down at his sewing machine, the day’s projects in easy reach on a garment rack next to him. He kept the machine in the front of the store so he could work in down time and also know when a customer came in. Even though there was a bell over the door, the hum of the machine often drowned it out.

It was easy for Cas to lose himself in sewing. The steady thrumming of the machine was almost hypnotic as his eyes focused on the small stitches in front of him, hands carefully guiding the fabric where it needed to go. He was good at what he did and he took great satisfaction in manipulating the inanimate material from something that simply hung on the body into something that moved with and became _part_ of the body. Rather than hiding the person beneath fabric, he wanted to be able to reveal them.

He started with Inias’s pants. The darts were quick and simple. Knowing his friend, he left the extra seam allowance in. He was sure once Hester stopped pushing the diet on him, Inias would be back to let the pants out again. Once they were steamed and pressed, Cas placed them in a clear plastic garment bag and hung them back on the rack.

He paused before picking up the first of Dean’s shirts. The material on the shirts was decent, even if Dean was right and they hadn’t fit him well at all. Cas was more than happy to remedy that. There was very little variety beyond color in the four shirts that sat before him. Two were a plain white cotton, good all-purpose shirts. There was another with a similar cut, but maroon in color. Cas had to block the image of how well that color complimented Dean’s eyes. The last shirt was a solid black with a slight satin sheen to it. All four held definite signs of being newly purchased.

Cas fleetingly wondered if Dean had bought the shirts specifically with the intention of having them tailored, maybe to see him again, before he shook the thought off. More likely, once Dean realized he _could_ look good in this style shirt, he’d decided to invest in a few to have on hand in case they became necessary. From his discussions with Dean, they didn’t strike Cas as the man’s typical everyday style of clothing. They certainly didn’t seem practical to walk dogs in. But then, what did Cas really know about the dog walking business?

Clearing his mind of thoughts of the shirts’ owner, he settled into his rhythm. Many people didn’t realize that you couldn’t simply take in a garment by closing up the side seam. That affected not only the shape of the sleeve, but threw off the proportions overall – especially if the wearer tended to be broad chested. Cas had opted, rather than making a large single dart down the center back, to make two smaller darts running off center and parallel to each other, from the bottom of the shirt up the back. This along, with some additional taken in on the side, made an enormous difference, tapering in the waist and highlighting Dean’s broad shoulders. The effect was both slimming and lengthening. As he had with the shirt Dean wore for the wedding, Cas also extended the cuffs a bit to allow Dean’s wrist a little more comfort.

All in all, the alterations were simple with little change to the overall construction. Unlike with Inias’s pants however, Cas did remove the extra fabric, particularly closer to the waistline, before applying his finishing seam. There was simply too much taken in to hide. Ultimately, it would bunch and appear unflattering as well as being uncomfortable to the wearer.

By the time Cas had finished all four shirts, he was startled to realize the sun was significantly closer to the horizon than he’d realized. Glancing at his watch, he saw that he should have flipped his sign to “close” over an hour ago.

Sighing, he stood up, taking a moment to stretch his arms over his head to work out the kinks in his shoulders and back, and walked over to flip both the sign and the lock. He was grateful that he’d managed to finish the alterations on both the pants and the shirts today, but he regretted that it was due to the complete lack of customers.

Cas made quick work of closing out the register drawer – after all, there wasn’t really much to do – and logged the orders and progress in his record book. He had a fancy online program for that, but he still found it easier to write down his work manually first. He usually transferred everything over to the software on Saturday nights after closing so the records would be easier to locate later.

Satisfied the store was shut down and cleaned up to his satisfaction, he turned off the light and walked up the narrow flight of stairs to his apartment above.

 

* * *

 

 

Cas expected Wednesday to be slow. Inias had come in early to pick up his pants, taking a moment to chat and to bemoan the salad Hester had made for him the night before.

“She just doesn’t believe me when I tell her salads are rabbit food. I need more than that to survive.”

Cas had laughed sympathetically with his friend and wished him luck. He actually enjoyed a good salad; he was particularly fond of kale, so he didn’t completely agree with Inias’s assessment. That said, he was glad his habit of taking an early morning run allowed him to indulge in a juicy burger every now and then. Not that it much mattered – both fresh greens and burgers were expensive. More often than not, lately Cas found himself eating ramen noodles to save on his grocery bill.

As expected, the next few hours were painfully dull. Cas pulled out one of the costumes for _Oklahoma!_ and started general maintenance. The dress in question had seen a lot of use over the years and the fabric had been snagged on scenery, crammed into closets, and treated roughly in the necessity of a quick change. There were a few tears, most on the seams, and Cas could already see some places where it would need reinforcement before its next outing.

Most of this work was better suited to hand stitching, and he pulled his stool out in front of his counter to take advantage of the sunlight streaming in through the door while he worked. He’d been at it for about an hour when the door chimed.

Blinking, Cas looked up. It was a new customer. _Another_ new customer.

“Hi,” the man said, smiling. “Are you Cas Novak?”

“I am.”

“Excellent. My name is Brady. A friend recommended me to you last weekend. I’m starting a new job next week and it’s the first time I need to wear a suit. Think you can help me?”

“I’ll be happy to,” Cas said, warming to his new customer immediately. “Good first impressions are important. Besides, you’d be surprised at how far a well-fitting suit can go in terms of building your self-confidence. If you _look_ like you can do the job, you _feel_ like you can do the job.”

The man in front of him smiled broadly. “Thanks. Trust me, I can use all the confidence you can give me. And seriously, if you can make me look as good as you made Dean look for that wedding, I trust you implicitly.”

Warmth suffused Cas as he heard Dean’s name. He did his best to hide his reaction behind a friendly, customer service oriented smile. “Ah, you were at Dean’s brother’s wedding this weekend too?”

“Yeah, Sam and I went to Stanford together. Sam wound up in pre-law, but I went on to business. You gotta start at the bottom up, though, no matter where your degree is from, so it’s taken awhile to need the suit.”

Cas grinned. “Sounds like congratulations are in order, then. If you’ll step into the dressing room, go ahead and change and I’ll be right back with you.” He gestured behind him to indicate the changing area.

Once Brady was out of sight, Cas’s smile slid into something softer. Dean hadn’t been kidding. He really had told people about Cas. Cas determined a new store policy then and there. For every recommendation customers sent his way, he’d give a ten percent discount on their next job, starting with Dean’s shirts. It was the least he could do to say thank you. And it made perfect sense. Professionally speaking.

 

* * *

 

 

“Morning, Cas!” Dean said brightly as he stepped into the shop. Cas looked up and felt his heart flutter. Every time he saw Dean’s face, Cas knew his resolve to not let his attraction to the other man take root was chipping away.

“Hello, Dean.” He felt his smile stretch wider than it had in months. He hadn’t had much to smile at in a while. Then he noticed what was in Dean’s hand and his smile widened even further.

“Did you bring me coffee?”

“You bet. Nectar of the Gods.”

Cas chuckled. “Usually I’m a tea drinker, but in the morning? I will never turn down a cup of coffee. Thank you.”

Dean wrinkled his nose at the idea of tea and Cas couldn’t help but think it was more than a little adorable. “Tea should only be served cold and loaded with sugar,” Dean declared, his tone brooking no argument.

Cas just shook his head as he accepted his cup and took a tentative sip. He closed his eyes and breathed deep as the warmth flooded his system and the first jolt of caffeine hit his brain.

He opened his eyes again to meet bright green. “Just the way I like it. Thank you. And your shirts are ready. They’re hanging in the dressing room if you’d like to try them on and check the fit?”

“Sure. I doubt it’s necessary. They’re probably perfect, but better safe than sorry, right?”

“Absolutely,” Cas agreed, more than eager to spend a little more time with Dean. Besides, he did want to check the fit. If Dean was actively recommending him, it was his responsibility to make sure Dean looked good. His professional pride was on the line here.

Dean was right, of course. Everything fit perfectly. Cas couldn’t help preening a little on the inside as he straightened the fabric around Dean’s waist while the other man tugged the cuffs gently into place.

“See, man? Told you. Fits like a glove. You’re a genius.”

“Thank you, Dean.”

“Just sayin’ it like it is, Cas. Couldn’t hurt to have a little more confidence in your skills, you know.”

“Are Sam and Jess still on their honeymoon?”

Dean laughed. “Yeah, they went down to Brazil for two weeks. Rio. Jess insisted on doing the beaches there. I can’t wait to see pictures. Moose are supposed to stay in colder climates.”

“Moose?” Cas asked, his head tilting in confusion.

“Oh, sorry,” Dean chortled. “My brother’s _huge_. 6’4, big muscles. So I call him Moose.”

Cas’s eyes widened, “Wow.” At six feet, Cas was above average height and it was rare he met too many people he had to physically look up to. Next to the two Winchester brothers, he was apparently a mouse.

“Don’t let that fool you, though.” Dean let out a rueful laugh. “I call him a moose, but he’s really more like a Great Dane. He’s got this annoying puppy thing going on that rivals any of my charges. Used to get away with a ton of stuff as a kid because of it.”

Cas chuckled, “I’m sure he wasn’t alone.”

“Me? Nah, I’ve always had the pretty face to fall back on. Didn’t need to resort to cute.” He paused and laughed at a thought before looking at Cas, “Cas, tell me I’m pretty.”

Cas’s mind stuttered to a halt. _What?_

He wasn’t sure how to respond. Was Dean flirting? Should he flirt back? What about his resolve? But damn, there was no way to deny that Dean was pretty. Not in a feminine way. There was no denying he was all male, but his features were decidedly more delicate than many other men his size.

His face must have shown his befuddlement because Dean burst out into a full body laugh, his leaning forward to rest his hands on his knees in his amusement.

“Oh, c’mon man. Don’t tell me you’ve never seen _Firefly_?”

Oh. Dean had been quoting something. Cas wasn’t sure if that made him feel better or worse. Instead, he just shook his head slightly and smiled nervously in return.

“Sorry, Dean, I didn’t understand the reference. I don’t watch a whole lot of TV. But I do admit a weakness for Project Runway.”

“Oh, man. I am going to have to sit you down to watch some Joss Whedon,” Dean said, not noticing Cas’s pause.

Sit down and watch? As in sit down and watch together? Just as friends? As more? Cas still wasn’t sure where the boundaries were, but every time he saw Dean, he knew they were thinning. And, if he was honest, he was friends with Inias. He’d been over for dinner with Hester. Would this be any different just because Cas had met Dean _after_ he’d opened his shop rather than before? The questions swirled around in his head for the rest of Dean’s fitting, and he found himself staring in the direction of the fitting room as he waited at the counter for Dean to emerge. Shaking his head, he turned to face the computer when Dean flicked the curtain to the side.

When Cas rang up the ticket and quoted the price. Dean blinked in surprise. “Cas, not that I’m complaining, but that’s less than what you told me on Tuesday. You sure you put it in right?”

“Store policy,” Cas replied, neglecting to mention that it was a brand new policy and Dean was the first customer who would benefit from it. “Discount for every new referral that comes in to have work done.”

Dean smiled. “Sounds like a win-win system to me. Who came in?”

“Brady.”

Dean nodded before smiling and winking at Cas. “Good. I’ll keep working on it. If I’m gonna have a tailor now, I can use all the discounts I can get.” He finished paying, and threw a wave over his shoulder as he walked out with his shirts slung over his shoulder.

Cas smiled. Dean would be back.


	3. part three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here be porn

Not bothering to stifle his yawn, Cas let the door to the stairwell that led to his apartment slam behind him, taking some small pleasure in ignoring the “close gently!!!” sign that had been taped to the doorjamb. There were not many ways he could defy Meg, and she refused to admit that the heavy security door from the 1960’s definitely needed replacing.

It was one of those rare spring days that had dawned clear and bright, only a few fluffy white clouds in the sky for decoration, and Cas somewhat regretfully unlocked the front door and slid into the dark shop. If he had a little less work ethic, he’d consider closing the shop for the day and enjoying the sun. The thought continued to play at the back of his mind as he ambled around the store, flipping light switches and ending at the front counter as he watched the computer boot up.

There were three frilly dresses with the lace ripping off still on the  _Oklahoma!_ garment rack. He hated sewing with lace, but if he dawdled the project could probably last him until at least noon, when he could break up the monotony of the day with a cup of soup and the rest of last night’s chicken salad sandwich.

Closing the shop and taking an extended jog in the park was sounding more and more like a good idea. Cas rested his elbows on the counter and cupped his chin in his hands, sighing.

The soft rock radio station switched to Kenny G.

The phone did not ring.

People passed by on the sidewalk outside, sparing no glances for the inside of his shop.

The morning sun slanting in through the windows started to make the front room slightly too warm for comfort. Cas refused to get up just to close the blinds.

By quarter of ten, Cas was bored to the point of looking forward to the lace and the frills, and was shifting his weight on the stool to head to his sewing table, when movement caught at the edge of his eye at the door. His throat tightened in surprise as he recognized the silhouette, backlit by the morning sun, and he sat up very straight as Dean shifted the box he was carrying to one hand to pull open the door.

Not a box, Cas realized as Dean moved under the lights of the store and Cas could see him without the glare of the sun. A laundry basket.

A laundry basket that Dean then heaved to the counter, and Cas could see it was stuffed with sloppily-folded clothes.

“Good morning, Dean,” Cas said, unable to suppress a puzzled smile.

“Morning.” Dean beamed. “Nothing feels like it fits anymore. It’s driving me nuts.”

Dean smiling that widely was almost as difficult to look at as staring directly into the sun. Cas let his gaze drop to the clothes in the basket. A truly remarkable number of cotton button-up shirts were stacked next to a haphazard pile of jeans and khaki pants, with a collection of Henley and tee shirts shoved in sideways to take up what little extra space there was. Some items looked worn past the point where Cas would have thrown them out, clearly years old. Cas blinked.

“Is this just everything you own?” he asked, amusement warming his tone.

Dean shrugged. “Not  _everything_.” He cracked another smile. “You already did the suit.”

Shaking his head, Cas let out a small chuckle. “Dean, I – do you really want all these altered?” He laid his hand on the Henleys. “These are supposed to fit loosely. Some items are made to be able to wear them off the rack.” The part of him that desperately wanted to be able to pay his lease told him to shut up, but he ignored it. He wasn’t going to start exploiting eager clients for money. “The shirts – is it the cuffs?”

“Cuffs,” Dean agreed eagerly. “And across the back. Same as with all my other shirts. And the Henleys – you said that the shoulder seam is supposed to hit here, right?” He gestured. “They don’t do that. They feel like they hit here.” He moved his hand in an exaggerated example at his elbow.

Hesitating, Cas bit his lip before taking a breath. “I’m happy to do it, of course, but...Dean, this is somewhere around fifteen dollars apiece. And –”

Dean held up a hand. “I’m good for it. We finally sold my dad’s house. The debt Sam and I inherited has been completely wiped out, with a bit of extra for our troubles. And I’m gonna celebrate at my tailor’s.”

“That’s a sentence I don’t hear every day,” Cas murmured. He finally let himself look Dean full in the face again, and he didn’t even make the effort to quell the vaulting happiness in his stomach as he pushed the laundry basket back toward Dean. “Let me close down the shop for the morning so we’re not interrupted.”

He hadn’t used his  _“Closed for private fitting”_  sign since he’d opened the shop. He grinned as he hung it from the hook on the door. As it swung there, he resolutely tamped down the little voice in the back of his head that started making inappropriate comments about things they could privately fit. Dean was a client, one he enjoyed having around, and he wasn’t going to do anything to cross any lines to jeopardize that.

At least, he certainly hoped so.

 

* * *

 

 

Dean had already donned a pair of khakis and one of the button-down shirts and was standing in front of the mirror, tugging up on the waistband of the khakis. “Haven’t actually worn these since I started the dog walking,” he said as Cas approached. “Apparently I lost some weight chasing around the furballs.”

Cas was inclined to agree. When Dean let the khakis fall, they settled so loosely on his hips that they were in no small danger of falling straight to the floor. “Let’s fix that first,” Cas said, strapping his pin collector to his wrist. He reached out to pinch the fabric at the waistband. “You like them to sit right about here?”

“Where should they sit?” Dean asked. Cas looked up to catch Dean’s eye in the mirror to see if he was joking, but Dean’s face looked completely earnest. “I’m serious. I’ve learned I know nothing about how things are supposed to fit. You’re the expert, man.”

Cas flushed slightly at the praise and unconditional trust Dean was placing in him. “Anything that you wear with a belt, you want the bottom of the waistband to hit just above this bone here,” he said, tapping at Dean’s hip bone. “Higher and it looks strange, but any lower and it’s uncomfortable because you’ll be hitting that bone. Not to mention it looks sloppy.”

Dean nodded. “No one likes sloppy bottoms.”

Cas was proud of the way he kept his face straight as Dean winked in the mirror. He couldn’t stop his ears from getting red, however, and he hoped Dean wouldn’t notice. It was a futile hope, judging by the rakish grin that followed. Cas dropped his eyes to his work, which was not particularly helpful, his work currently being ensuring that the back pockets were draping evenly over Dean’s hind end.

“So what have you been up to these past few weeks?” he asked with an air of desperation, hoping the patter of conversation would ground him enough in professionalism that he could study the lay of the fabric rather than what was underneath it.

“Not much.” Dean tugged at the cuff of the sleeve. “Worried about one of my charges. She’s lethargic to begin with, but she doesn’t want to go outside at all now, and she’s stopped playing with her treats — she used to toss her jerky sticks up in the air before she’d chow down and now she just eats ‘em quietly.” His voice definitely sounded somber now. “I’m trying to get the owners to let me take her to the vet, if they don’t have the time.”

Cas wasn’t certain what to say to that. “Sounds rough,” he attempted, and didn’t realize until Dean snorted that he’d made a truly groan-worthy pun. “I didn’t — that wasn’t intentional. I have a cat, and I’d be devastated if she ended up sick.”

“A cat?” Dean asked, wrinkling his nose. “And here I thought you had such good judgement.”

“Question her judgement, not mine,” Cas said as he pulled down on the bottom hem at Dean’s ankle. For some reason, one leg was shorter than the other. “She’s the one who adopted me.”

“Cats can’t sign adoption papers,” Dean said, but Cas had stopped paying attention. He knew Dean’s legs were the same length; he’d measured them. Why was one leg of the khakis shorter?

He found the answer a moment later, in a wad of fabric lodged in the short leg to the side of Dean’s calf. Amused, he tapped it. “May I?” he asked.

“What? Sure,” Dean replied with a shrug. As Cas raised the fabric of the khakis up, though, he felt Dean go completely rigid and heard a sharp intake of breath. “Wait —”

The protest was too late; Cas’s fingers had already closed on something satiny and he’d drawn it out from the pant leg. He blinked at the pink material still bunched up in his grip, fringed with tasteful delicate white lace at the outer seams, and it took a moment for what he was holding to register.

By that point, Dean had leaned down and snatched the panties from Cas’s hand, his face well on its way to matching the fuschia of the garment. “I’ll — I’m just gonna —” Dean gestured wildly at the dressing area where his backpack lay, eyes slightly wild and looking everywhere in the shop except at Cas. He strode over to his backpack hurriedly and drew the curtains as Cas rocked back on his heels, mind slowly beginning to process what had just happened.

And as it processed, his entire body declared mutiny and slammed into arousal with dizzying speed.

“Oh no, you don’t,” Cas muttered to himself, quietly enough that Dean shouldn’t be able to hear in the dressing room. He rose to his feet, carefully adjusting the suddenly too-tight crotch of his pants as he went, and moved with considerable haste to the water cooler in the corner near his worktable.

He tried very hard to concentrate on the cold water in his throat, careful not to stab himself in the eye with the pins at his wrist. It appeared Dean was going to take a few moments behind the curtain to collect himself, and while Cas had considerable empathy for Dean’s mortification, he sincerely hoped that Dean would take long enough for Cas to convince his unexpectedly runaway hormones that this was a very inappropriate time to be introducing a previously undiscovered fetish.

“Client,” he told himself.

“Unprofessional,” he added.

“Wrong,” he chastised.

If his nether regions could respond with words, they likely would have been some variant of “but that ass,” followed by “panties” in a stage whisper.

He took another sip of water and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath after he swallowed. He just needed a minute, that was all. A minute, and they could pretend that nothing had happened at all.

 

* * *

 

By the time Dean had emerged from behind the curtain with a sheepish smile, still slightly flushed in the cheeks, Cas had had time to dunk a green tea bag into a cup of hot water and watch it steep, the calming routine finally arresting his libido into nothing more than a low-grade warm spot in the pit of his belly that he could ignore with some effort. Cas had decreed the khakis properly fit and moved to the shirt, and though Dean remained subdued for several minutes, it did not take long for him to fall back into his previous flirty demeanor.

The sun was no longer glaring through the front windows when Cas was interrupted from his pinning the loose shoulders of the third Henley by the sudden very loud growl of Dean’s stomach. Dean looked startled by it himself, looking down at the culprit in surprise.

“It is nearly one o’clock,” Cas pointed out, glancing at the clock. “I’d suggest we get some food and come back to this after lunch.”

Dean nodded. “Good plan. Where do you want to go?”

Cas blinked. “I – I didn’t mean –”

Dean grinned in the mirror. “I know you didn’t. But now I’m asking: where do you want to go for lunch?”

Cas was shaking his head before words even presented themselves. “You’re a client, I can’t –”

“Cas.” Dean turned to face him, and Cas took an unconscious step back. “Let me not be a client for an hour. Please.” He looked so earnest. Cas licked his lips, and apparently Dean could tell that he was about to shake his head, because Dean rushed on. “At least let me grab some sandwiches and bring them back here.”

“No food in the shop,” Cas said automatically, and Dean’s face fell. Cas felt something enormous in his chest that wasn’t quite guilt, and he took a breath. “I live above the shop. It’s where I eat my meals. If – if you want to grab us a bite…” he trailed off and found himself rubbing the back of his neck, a shy idiosyncrasy that he thought he’d eliminated. “We can have lunch up there,” he finished.

Dean’s answering grin was like the sun coming up.

Cas sat casually in his stool at the counter until Dean had changed back into his regular clothes and slid out the door, pausing to confirm Cas’s sandwich toppings of choice, before darting out of the shop, locking it with haste, and racing up the narrow staircase to his apartment.

The table of course hosted another sewing machine, as well as a box of thread and a teetering pile of fabric; he doubted he’d be able to make that anything even approaching company-worthy before Dean returned. They’d have to make do on the couch at the coffee table. He hurriedly began collecting the random bachelor detritus that had settled on the table and couch since his last cleaning stint some weeks ago, shoving the piles into the chest at the foot of his bed to deal with later.

He stared at his bed in consternation. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d changed the sheets, and the duvet was sadly limp. Bedding just wasn’t something he paid much attention to. He pulled the duvet over the wrinkled sheets in an attempt to make it appear as though he’d made the bed, wishing not for the first time that he didn’t have a studio apartment and had a bedroom door he could close.

A quick survey of the bathroom revealed it to not be hideously embarrassing. He gave the sink a cursory wipe and threw his electric razor into a drawer, which did wonders to unclutter the tiny counter, and tapped the air freshener in its socket to hopefully stir up some of the oil and make the bathroom smell less like the shower he’d taken that morning.

He nearly tripped over Butter as he stepped out of the bathroom back into the living space. She stared at him with an indignantly thrashing tail as he righted himself, and Cas shook his head.

“Out to the porch for you, I think,” he said, leaning down to gather the yellow tabby in his arms. He’d enclosed the porch with a metal screen when he’d brought Butter home, and Butter spent most afternoons happily sunning in her demesne, but he got the feeling she would resent the eviction today. That was just too bad. As he thrust her onto her pillow, he thanked whatever god was responsible for his foresight in keeping the litter box out here and, once he was back inside, pushed a box of fabric in front of the cat door. A glance outside let him know that Butter was extremely offended by this turn of events. “Live with it,” he told her through the window before turning away.

Except now he had yellow cat hair stuck to the front of his torso. Muttering, Cas shrugged out of the suit jacket and vest, and to try and combat the feeling of being half-dressed, loosened the collar and tie and rolled up the sleeves. There. More casual, less unfinished. He was in the process of draping the now-furry vest and jacket over the back of a chair when the phone rang.

Cas’s heart skipped a beat. The only reason he had a landline was for the call box at the foot of the stairs. He picked up the receiver and took a breath. “Dean?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“I’m buzzing you in.”

He hesitated before punching the last number of the code, then let his held breath out in a whoosh. It was too late to back out now.

He dialed the last number, waited until he heard the heavy security door slam shut a story below, and hung up the phone.

 

* * *

 

The staircase leading up to the second floor of the building was almost claustrophobically narrow, enough so that Dean had to turn sideways to avoid snagging the plastic bags that held their sandwiches on the wall as he ascended. The black anti-slip strips at the lip of each stair were peeling, and the wooden handrail was discolored from the touch of many hands, but the stairwell was brightly lit and didn’t smell like grilled cheese, which already made it superior to the stairwell at Dean’s apartment building.

Dean switched both bags to one hand, preparing to knock on the door to 2A, when he paused, hand hovering in the air. He normally was not one for butterflies in his stomach, but there was no denying the fluttering at the walls of his ribs, and apparently these little bastards were bird-sized, and possibly armed.

_It’s just lunch_. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Neither action seemed to do much, so in the interest of at least beginning a forward momentum, he rapped his knuckles on the door before he lost all nerve. It opened almost immediately, and if Dean’s jaw had not been clenched it likely would have dropped.

The tailor had abandoned the vest and jacket he’d been wearing earlier. The tie had been loosened, the shirt collar undone, the sleeves rolled up, and in his transformation to something more casual he’d managed to remove himself entirely from Dean’s definition of “the hot tailor” and land solidly in “man Dean wouldn’t mind stripping the clothes from.”

“Come on in,” Cas said, stepping back. “I was just, uh, cleaning up a bit.”

Dean stepped across the threshold and glanced at the row of shoes by the door. He had trouble imagining the tailor ever wearing the white running shoes that were there, or the flip flops, but both showed signs of definite use. “Shoes off or on?”

Cas’s eyes fell to his own stocking feet. “Oh. I don’t care. I just keep shoes there so I don’t trip on them.”

Deciding to err on the side of polite, Dean toed his shoes off to lay haphazardly beside the orderly row, the rugged boots incongruous next to the dress shoes. He wondered if that’s how he and Cas looked standing next to each other right now, Dean in his jeans and tee shirt and Cas still looking as though he’d just stepped from a high-end menswear catalogue, two shapes that didn’t appear to have anything to do with one another.

“We’ll have to eat on the couch,” Cas said, and Dean nearly jumped. How long had he been staring at the shoes? “My table’s a bit occupied.”

“Sure,” Dean replied as Cas reached out for the bags. Dean looked around the space as he followed Cas the few steps to the couch. It didn’t take long; a half-wall separated the bed space from the living area, and the pebbled glass door in the corner must lead to the bathroom. Aside from the obvious lived-in feeling it had, the studio wasn’t much different from most hotel rooms Dean had encountered. “Nice place,” he said, settling himself down on the couch next to Cas.

“It’s small,” Cas said as he rustled through the bags, removing the paper-wrapped sandwiches. “But it’s home. And you can’t beat the commute. You had the ham?”

“Yeah.” He reached out to accept the sandwich and couldn’t help but watch Cas’s hands intently as Cas twisted the cap from a bottle of Coke. Those hands, he realized abruptly, had already touched him – in a professional and competent manner, of course, but that didn’t make it any less intimate. Dean imagined he could still feel the tailor’s touch as he smoothed the cotton of a shirt across his shoulder blades, one hand going for a pin held between his lips, and it took a moment for Dean to realize that Cas was no longer looking at the bottle in his hands, but up at Dean.

“What?” Cas asked, brow furrowing.

Dean shook his head, dispelling his reverie. “Nothing,” he said, reaching out to break the tape that held the rolled paper around his sandwich. “Was just thinking.”

“Mmm,” Cas murmured, bringing the bottle to his lips. Dean determinedly did not watch, instead focusing on the sandwich in his hands. There was a moment of silence as Cas swallowed, and then, “About what?”

Dean took an overlarge bite to delay having to answer the question, because he wasn’t sure of the answer. There was only so much chewing he could do, however, and he finally swallowed and took a breath. “I don’t know how to read you.”

Cas blinked at that. “Read me how?”

The sandwich didn’t look all that appetizing anymore, but Dean was loathe to put it down and find something else to do with his hands. “One minute you look at me like you...want something,” he said lamely. “Like this morning. And then the next it’s like I’m a talking mannequin. You won’t let me take you anywhere, but...here I am.” He gestured around him. “I just…” He shrugged. “I just wanna know where we stand.”

Cas huffed out something that could be a single laugh, his eyes dropping to the coke in his hands. “If I knew that,” he said slowly, “we wouldn’t be here right now.”

Against his better judgment, Dean put his sandwich down before he strangled it. “Where else would we be?”

“If the answer was no,” Cas said, very carefully studying the label on the bottle, “you wouldn’t be sitting here.”

“And if it was yes?” Dean asked, mouth suddenly dry.

Cas jerked a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the bed. He didn’t look up.

Dean swallowed against the startled surprise that leaped in his stomach. “Ah.”

“But it’s not that easy.”

_It could be_ , Dean stopped himself from saying. “Why?” he asked instead. He debated reaching out and placing a hand on Cas’s knee, just to underline how close they were to nothing else mattering, but held himself back.

“My entire life,” Cas said, his eyes clouding, “is on the edge of coming undone because of those online reviews.” His eyes flicked up to Dean’s for the barest moment. “I know you’ve read them. And if I – if I take advantage of a client, the way they’re accusing me?” He shook his head. “Admit that my reasons for touching you weren’t professional? What kind of moral leg would I have to stand on against their arguments?”

Dean licked his lips as he tried to arrange his thoughts in a way that made sense. “Cas,” he began, “I’m only a client because it’s a guaranteed way to spend time with you.” He blinked. “I mean, you’re a fantastic tailor. I couldn’t ask for a better one. I meant to say...” The carefully marshalled words failed him. “I don’t need every shirt I own to fit perfectly. But if I bring them in, that’s fifteen minutes I get to spend with you.” He shrugged. “And it helps you out. Which is also good. But if I stop coming in, and stop being your client – I don’t exactly have a good track record getting you outside of that shop.”

Cas didn’t answer, but after he leaned forward to deposit the bottle on the table, it certainly did seem as though he’d shifted his weight closer to Dean. Their thighs were touching now, even if only just barely. Dean took another breath and checked his watch.

“We agreed I wasn’t your client for an hour. We’ve got thirty-seven minutes of that left.” He turned and caught Cas’s gaze in his own. “So where do we stand?”

Dean had a split-second to register Cas’s eyes coming very close very quickly before a hand slid around the back of his neck and pulled him into a forceful kiss, hard enough to scrape his teeth against his lips and taste the faint iron tang of blood. Lips parted and Cas was not timid at all about meeting Dean’s tongue with his own, wet velvet that tasted faintly of Coca-Cola and, more strongly, an indescribable taste that was just Cas.

Dean wasn’t sure whether he pulled Cas to straddle his lap or if Cas had maneuvered himself there, or if it had been a combination of both, but Cas managed to press against Dean’s groin in such a way that Dean moaned into the kiss as he twitched his hips up to meet Cas’s and prolong the delicious friction against his rapidly swelling cock. Cas, he could tell, was already in a similar state of excitement, and Dean spared a moment to acknowledge that they’d probably both been on a low simmer the entire morning and only needed the least provocation.

He felt Cas’s hands trail down his front and Cas leaned back, just slightly, not breaking the kiss, but it was clear that the kiss was no longer foremost in his attention. With a jolt, Dean understood why that was and let out a small sound of surprise as Cas’s fingers began prying at his belt buckle.

“You don’t waste any time, do you?” he asked, voice already husky, as Cas worked his way down to the junction of Dean’s chin and throat and scraped his teeth there, very lightly, and sent gooseflesh rippling down Dean’s spine.

He felt Cas’s fingers working at the button of his fly as he murmured against his neck, “Not if I’ve only got thirty-five minutes.”

Jesus, he was really going to take that to heart. Dean let his eyes flutter shut as he rested his head against the back of the couch, jaw slack as Cas tugged down the zipper of his jeans with eager haste. He couldn’t help the pleasurable growl that rose in the back of his throat as Cas’s hand darted beneath the elastic of his boxers and finally grasped at Dean’s cock, nor could he hold back thrusting shamelessly into Cas’s hand. Cas’s enthusiasm to touch him kindled a fire at the base of his spine that coiled with a nearly euphoric tension. Dean wasn’t sure what Cas had in mind, but chances were he would not be spending a long time doing it.

With a single-minded swiftness, Cas yanked Dean’s boxers and jeans straight down to his ankles, ignoring Dean’s shiver as skin was exposed to the air, and settled himself on the carpet between Dean’s legs. Dean’s shaky “– Cas –” only elicited a damn near predatory twinkle in Cas’s eyes before the other man gripped the base of Dean’s cock and lowered his face.

“Yes?” Cas asked, looking up at Dean, his voice gone low and gravelly.

Dean nearly lost it right there. “Fuck yes,” he replied, shutting his eyes tightly and resisting the compulsion to thrust his hips upwards in a quest for any sort of friction that would build toward release. That was not a question he was inclined to answer no to, given the circumstances.

His desperation, however, elicited a sound of amusement from Cas, and instead of taking Dean in his mouth, Cas ran his tongue lightly over the purpling head, squeezing gently at the base with his hand, and Dean wasn’t sure that the sounds that fell from his lips were actual words.

Meanwhile, Dean became slowly aware of Cas’s other hand trailing lightly over his balls, with just enough pressure to keep it from being ticklish, and then roam further back to press hard against the bridge of flesh just behind them. Dean’s eyes flew open as a wholly new sensation clamored for attention, and he strangled a shout as he felt a small rush of precome escape from the oversensitive head of his cock.

“You’re one of those,” Cas murmured, lips whispering against Dean’s shaft with the words, and he pressed again.

“I’m one of whats?” Dean managed.

Cas let out a breathy chuckle. “It’s not exactly a magical orgasm button, but it can come damn close on some people.” He pressed again, keeping the pressure there this time as he massaged what Dean dimly realized must be his prostate, and he swallowed to avoid making an embarrassing sound. It had never occurred to him that Cas might be really, really good at this – the mental image of the quiet and proper tailor in the shop below and the devilish man kneeling between Dean’s legs were close to impossible to reconcile.

He felt the fingers let up on the pressure and meander back a little bit more, and Dean sucked in a breath as they brushed against the sensitive skin of his rim. He almost didn’t hear Cas’s next words of “it’s more effective inside...” before he was nodding furiously, not trusting himself to form any coherent noises.

The fingers left, and Dean chanced a glance down to see Cas slicking one in his mouth before he screwed his eyes shut again, convinced that if he added a visual to any of this, he wouldn’t last another second.

“You’ve never done this before.” It wasn’t exactly a question. Dean shook his head as Cas pressed his finger gently against the tight ring, and he could hear Cas murmur something he couldn’t make out, but it sounded triumphant. “Just one. Promise.”

Dean gasped as the first tiny wrench of discomfort unfurled, and Cas stretched up to lean against his chest, voice low, a litany against his ear now, breath warm against his skin. “Relax. Push against it if you need to, just don’t clench. I’m not moving until you give the word. I’ve got you.”

Slowly, Dean felt himself relax around Cas’s finger, and Cas made an approving noise, still against Dean’s ear. “You good?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Dean said in something barely even a whisper. He tried to keep himself relaxed as Cas pushed in further, slowly enough that the burn of the stretch turned into something akin to anticipation, and Cas slid back down to the floor to take Dean’s cock in his other hand and pull at it in slow strokes. His erection had flagged slightly at the intrusion, but at the new attention it was receiving it rallied once more.

And then Cas did something inside him – crooked his finger, maybe, or just twitched it slightly – and Dean nearly jumped to the ceiling. “Fuck,” he croaked, grasping at the corners of the couch cushion with both hands.

“Easy,” Cas said, and Dean felt the warmth of his breath against the head of his cock just before wet heat engulfed it all the way down to the base of his shaft. At the same time, Cas twitched his finger again, and Dean clenched his handholds of couch and let a hissing breath out through his teeth.

Then Cas swallowed around his cock, and with a sharp explosion behind his eyelids, Dean came undone, the tension snapping and uncoiling in sharp waves of pleasure that defied vocalization beyond gasps, his hips twitching as Cas continued whatever the _fuck_ he was doing, swallowing and sucking and pressing his tongue to the thick vein on the underside of his shaft.

Cas stayed there until the aftershocks had abated, leaving Dean’s chest heaving, his spent cock beginning to soften. He withdrew his finger with what Dean suspected was as much gentleness as he could manage, and Dean was too bonelessly sated to protest.

He couldn’t even summon enough energy to be ashamed at how quickly he’d broken.

Fine motor skills somewhat beyond him, Dean reached out to grasp at Cas’s arm and draw him up for a graceless kiss. He dimly noted that Cas was clutching a paper napkin from the forgotten sandwich bags – cleaning up, probably – but that train of thought derailed as he tasted himself on Cas’s tongue and he buried his fingers in the short curls at the nape of Cas’s neck, pulling him closer, refusing to let him go.

Of course, Cas was not exactly struggling to leave, bucking his hips against Dean’s stomach, and Dean let his hands fall to the waistband of Cas’s trousers. The buttery leather of his belt yielded, and Dean’s fingers fumbled at more buttons than seemed necessary before drawing the zipper down and reaching in to pull Cas’s cock out of the silk confines of his boxers.

Dean had every intention of sliding down the couch and running his tongue all along Cas’s length, not caring that he’d never done it before and would probably be horrible at it compared to the mastery Cas had just demonstrated, but Cas was pinning his shoulders to the back of the couch and gave no indication that he was going to let up. He let out a low moan as Dean stroked once, gently dragging his teeth along Dean’s lower lip before letting his head drop to rest on Dean’s shoulder.

“Dean,” he said, muffled, voice raw with need. “The...the panties.”

Dean blinked. Was _that_ what had set Cas off so thoroughly? His hand faltered for a moment, and Cas thrust into it to prompt him to continue. “I like them,” he said finally, and nearly jumped when one of Cas’s hands dropped to cover his own, increasing the speed of his stroking. “They feel nice,” he continued, warming to his subject, “and I like the way they look, sometimes.” God, he’d ever told another soul that, not even the girlfriend who had insisted he try them on in the first place, but the words were making Cas bite at his shoulder through his shirt in what Dean could only assume was appreciation.

“I have more,” he forced himself to say, which earned him a small keening sound. “Red. A couple black ones. Blue, I think.”

“Will you show me?” Cas’s grip over his hand was so tight that Dean was losing feeling in his fingers, the rhythm he was imposing stuttering in the familiar way of one who was close to toppling over the edge.

Dean let out a whoosh of breath, stabs of renewed arousal blooming at the notes of longing in Cas’s voice. “Fuck, if it means we get to do this again, I’ll wear them all for you.”

A delicious shudder washed over Cas, and Dean winced as Cas bit hard at the flesh of his shoulder to stifle his cry. A moment too late Cas brought the napkin clenched in his fist to try to contain the rest of the mess that had not already soaked into the front of Dean’s shirt. “Sorry,” Cas mumbled, attempting to mop up what he could.

“It’ll wash,” Dean replied, the post-coital fog finally beginning to clear, though his cock had already begun to recover and take interest in the wake of Cas’s spectacular release.

“No, not…” Cas leaned back, eyes downcast. “Let me get you another shirt.”

“It’s all right,” Dean insisted, “I’ve got forty downstairs, I can just button this one up over it and it’s fine.” Cas had tossed the sodden napkin to the side and was tucking his shirt back into his pants, not meeting Dean’s eyes, and Dean reached out to lift Cas’s chin. “Hey. Are you okay?”

Cas leaned back to look down again, as though redoing his belt took all his attention. “I’m fine. I just...that may have been a very bad decision.”

Dean swallowed, aware that Cas was now fully dressed and his own pants and boxers were still around his ankles, his valiantly half-hard cock on full display. “C’mere.” He reached out and drew Cas against his chest, hopefully keeping the rapidly cooling wet spot from soaking into Cas’s shirt as well. “We’ve got twenty-five more minutes before you’re allowed to start freaking out.”

“Too late,” Cas said, but he didn’t fight it, just settled his weight more firmly against Dean, snaking an arm between Dean’s back and the couch to pull him closer. Apparently he wasn’t worried about the wet spot. Dean closed his eyes and let himself enjoy the warmth of Cas against his chest, because he had the nagging feeling he wasn’t going to be experiencing it again.

 

* * *

 

Cas had taken some time to come down from the apartment and unlock the door where Dean stood waiting, so long that Dean had wondered if he should go home. There was no easy banter, no wide grins, and though Dean tried to catch Cas’s eye and start some sort of conversation, Cas resolutely looked away. Dean felt ashamed at the spark of relief as he shrugged out of the last shirt, mindful of the pins in it. Cas hadn’t even been professionally distant, as he had been earlier; all the close attention that Dean had enjoyed had fled, leaving behind dispassionate eyes that wouldn’t meet his and words that contained only perfunctory courtesy.

Dean managed to intercept Cas’s gaze at the register as Cas wrote out the slip, and something twinged in his chest at the conflict that swirled through the blue.

He had to try. “Cas, I...can I –”

“Do you have any other clothes, or was this really everything you owned?” Cas interrupted quickly.

“Mostly. Dude, we need to –”

“Day after tomorrow,” Cas continued, voice so studiously emotionless that it was obviously a front. “I can have some of it ready for you. Do you have clothes that will do you until then?”

Dean swallowed. “Yeah. I guess.” He grabbed the yellow slip and folded it, jamming it into his pocket as he slung his backpack over his shoulder. “See you then.”

He thought he heard a faltering “have a good evening” as the door shut behind him, but he didn’t look back.

 

* * *

 

“Well, I got what I wanted, didn’t I?” Dean asked bitterly as he tossed the tennis ball across the dog park. Scooter the cocker spaniel tore after it, legs a blur, and Dean leaned back against the fence to wait for her return. “Or he got what he wanted. One of the two.”

“Sure doesn’t sound like it,” Charlie replied critically. “For either of you.”

Dean shook his head and took another long drag from his cooling coffee. He’d left out the details – those were for him and Cas alone – but relaying even the censored version of events of the week before scraped something raw inside him. “When I went back for the first load of clothes he couldn’t even look at me, man. I don’t – I think I messed up, big time.” He sighed. “I’m thinking of having someone else go pick up the second load for me. If he can’t even be in the same room with me…”

Scooter was back, looking up at Dean expectantly with the ball still in her mouth. Dean knelt and tugged at the ball until the dog relinquished it, then threw it again, perhaps harder than was strictly necessary. “I thought I was done with one-night stands when I dropped out of college,” he said as he wiped his slobbery hand on his jeans. “I didn’t even get a night. I didn’t even get an _hour_.”

“For what it’s worth,” Charlie remarked, “it doesn’t sound like he’s brushing you off. If you gave it some time, maybe…?”

Dean shook his head again. “He’s made it pretty clear he doesn’t want to be around me. Forcing the issue was what got me into this mess.” He checked his watch and began uncoiling the leash to snap onto Scooter’s collar when the dog returned. “Wish we could start over.”

Charlie nodded in farewell at Dean’s wave. “His name is Cas?” she asked.

Dean nodded. “Why?”

“Just clarification.”

Dean peered at her, hand resting on the latch of the dog park’s gate. “Don’t do anything stupid,” he warned. “He’s got enough on his plate.”

“I won’t,” Charlie promised.

“I mean it.”

“I know.” Charlie bent to ruffle behind her dog’s ears, and Dean turned. He still had seven more charges, and then a vet trip with Bailey. If nothing else, his day was at least filled with distractions.


	4. part four

The bell above the door rang, and Cas looked up, equal amounts anticipation and dread washing away as he recognized the person standing on the threshold. “Good morning, Charlie,” he said, straightening. “Are you here about the show or about a new pattern?”

“Morning, Novak. Garb. Most definitely garb. I don’t want to have to put on that dress for _Oklahoma!_ again until I absolutely have to.” Charlie said with a grin as she reached into her satchel and pulled out a sketchbook. Her voice took on a thick country southern drawl and she looked at Cas through her lashes, “Yous ain gunna tell a girl you think she won’t fit inta her dress no more are ya, Novak?”

Cas chuckled lightly. “Miss Laurey, having seen you also handle a broadsword, I would never act in such an ungentlemanly manner.”

Charlie dropped the act and scrunched her nose. “I don’t want to play Laurey again. She’s so _boring_ and all damsel in distress. I’d rather play Ado Annie. She’s actually _interesting_ , but I haven’t got the curves for it.” She heaved a dramatic sigh and dropped her sketchbook on the counter.

Cas smiled faintly as she began flipping through the pages. He’d met Charlie last year through the theatre group, and she’d approached him for assistance in some of her more complicated ideas for her costuming pursuits outside of theatre. He enjoyed her enthusiasm for her projects almost more than the creative challenges they posed. He supposed with Renaissance Faire season beginning in a few months, she would have several projects to bring to his attention, and he leaned over the sketch she laid down on the counter with interest.

“Are you going to tool the belt?” he asked, pointing.

“No, I know a leatherworker who’s going to make it for me. Met him at the festival last year. He’s an apprentice still, so his work is cheaper than than guy that actually owns the shop. I’ve got the basics for the pants and the shirt - though I’ll probably be in for help tailoring the pants. It’s not like I can make adjustments on my own butt. Patternwise though, it’s just the waistcoat that’s giving me grief.” Charlie flipped her hair over her shoulder so she could lean over the sketch as well. “And I don’t have an embroidery machine for the patch, but the patch is important – that’s the emblem for my clan. It’s not crucial for Renn Faire, but I figure I can save some cash and double dip the costume for Faire and LARP stuff.”

Cas nodded. “You’ll need a pretty heavy worsted fabric for the waistcoat to keep its shape. Might need some light boning too. It’ll depend on the fabric and how you line it.”

“Yeah, I looked at some stuff in the home decor section. Way better selection than standard fabrics anyday. They just get hot fast. It’s like wearing a couch. Not too much an issue if it’s just the vest though.”

Cas nodded. He had helped Charlie with some of her costuming before and it had given him a healthy appreciation of the demands of the art form of garb. Unlike stage clothing, it needed to withstand close inspection and be practical, but it still required the element of theatrics that normal clothing didn’t. “My machine can do embroidery for the patch, but you might be better off looking for someone online who does that sort of thing. Most computerized machines require you to buy individual patterns. The stars wouldn’t be a problem, but that moon is very specific.”

“Mmm,” Charlie hummed in agreement.

Without warning, she stood upright, and slapped her hands down on the counter.

“ _So_. Novak. What’s going on in your life?”

Cas shifted uncomfortably. He’d known Charlie for a couple months now, but they weren’t exactly close. What did the redhead want to know? Was this just idle chit chat? Or was she actually curious? Cas felt his insides freeze as something occurred to him.

Was Charlie _flirting_ with him?

He’d gotten the impression Charlie preferred women only, but he could have been mistaken. It wasn’t as though they’d ever actually discussed it. This could not be happening again. All he wanted was to run a respectable business. At least this time he didn’t return the attraction, though he hated to hurt Charlie’s feelings.

A pair of fingers snapped in front of Cas’s face and he was pulled out of his momentary reverie to see Charlie looking at him with concern.

“You ok, man? You, like, completely checked out there for a minute.”

“I’m fine, Charlie. Thank you. But I’m afraid you may have gotten the wrong impression of our friendship, and I just want to clarify that I think you are a very nice person, but I’m -- uninterested. Not only would it be unprofessional since you’re a client, but...” Cas trailed off as Charlie’s jaw dropped open.

“Dude. Whoa. Um, not sure where _that_ came from, but to...clarify... I’m strictly into chicks without sticks. Ladies only.”

Cas frowned, tilting his head to the side to study Charlie. “So you weren’t flirting with me just now?”

“ _What_? No!” Charlie said, laughter lacing her voice. “Oh man, Dean’s got you completely paranoid, doesn’t he?”

Charlie’s eyes widened and she shut her jaw with an audible _click_ as she realized what she’d said. “Oh, _frak_ ,” she muttered under her breath, just barely audible enough for Cas to hear.

Cas looked at her sharply, eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, ‘Dean’s got me paranoid?’”

“Crap, look, I’m sorry. It’s just, that’s why you don’t want to date Dean, right? Because he’s a customer?”

“How do you know Dean? Did he set you up to this?” Cas wasn’t sure if he was angry, confused, or a little bit of both.

“ _No_ , no, I swear. In fact, he’d probably kill me if he knew I was even in here. He doesn’t know I know you. Hell, I didn’t even realize you were the tailor he kept going on about until a few days ago when he told me your name.”

“So am I to take it that Dean’s been spreading the story of my business practices then?” Now Cas knew he was angry. He’d thought Dean was different, that even though Cas wasn’t comfortable with a relationship, Dean would still respect his privacy and profession. Clearly Cas was wrong. He wondered how bad the new review on the website would be.

Charlie’s eyes were flashing in a protective anger before Cas even finished. “Dean would never do that. You might not have known him well, but even you should have been able to tell that much about him. He’s a good friend of mine who was just looking for advice.”

She drew in a deep breath and closed her eyes momentarily before opening them and drilling her stare into Cas’s. “Look, Novak, Dean’s really messed up right now. He really likes you. From what I gathered from our conversation, you really like him too, right?”

Cas sank down onto the stool behind him and looked down at the ground. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t seem to need to.

“That’s what I thought. I don’t understand what the problem is then. You like him, he likes you, you’re both consenting adults. What’s the deal?”

Cas rubbed his hand over his face, feeling defeated. It sounded so _easy_ when Charlie put it like that. Why couldn’t it really be that simple?

“Charlie, Dean is -- was -- a customer. In case you haven’t been made aware of why my business suddenly tanked, it’s because somebody decided my personal life and my professional life were one and the same. If I start dating a customer, that’s just proves them right.”

“That’s the biggest load of bull crap I’ve ever heard,” Charlie said, derision clear in her tone.

Cas looked up sharply. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. That’s bull crap. Yes, I know about the reviews. I also clearly need to show you how to run a business in the internet age.”

Cas’s brow wrinkled in confusion as he looked at Charlie. “I don’t understand.”

“The reviews. Those were clearly written to harass your character rather than make a genuine statement about your business. I contacted the mod for Yelp. They’ve been removed. Without them, your ratings go up to four out of five stars with three responses.”

“They -- the reviews are gone?” Cas asked.

“Yep. There are rules you’re supposed to follow if you use review sites. The North Star asshats didn’t bother to look those up. Or, more likely, they didn’t care.”

Charlie leveled her gaze at him. “So that aside, and knowing full well the comments were bullshit anyway, what’s your problem with Dean?”

Cas worked his mouth, trying to formulate a response, to even think beyond the enormous weight Charlie’s words had just lifted off his shoulders. _The reviews were gone_.

His business wouldn’t rebound overnight. The customers who’d listened to the reviews to begin with weren’t likely to come back. But he was already starting to get new clientele. In addition to Brady, two of Dean’s dog walking referrals had come to see him as well.

And all those new clients were sent to him from Dean. Even after Cas had rejected him. Twice. Cas marveled at that. What reason did Dean have for continuing to help him? To help his business?

He must have spoken aloud, because Charlie was answering him. “Because, you thick headed cave troll, he’s doing just what you think you’re _not_ doing. He’s not equating what you do in your personal life with your skill as a tailor. He’s not the kind of guy to screw up your livelihood just because you decide you don’t want to see him outside your dressing room.”

“He’s still a customer, though,” Cas said forlornly.

Charlie rolled her eyes. “Novak. I know for a fact he’s already had you tailor basically everything he owns. He let you touch his Led Zeppelin shirt. You might not get the significance of that, but trust me, it’s freaking huge. The _only_ reason he did that was to try and spend more time with you, since you clearly weren’t interested in getting your ass outside this building. He’s got nothing left for you to work on. Hence, no longer a customer.”

Cas opened his mouth again to put forth one last final protest, but Charlie cut him off.

“Look Novak, what if you’d gone to get yourself coffee and Dean was the one working behind the counter. If he’d flirted with you then, would have considered him unprofessional? Or refused his number if he’d written it on your cup or napkin?”

He snapped his mouth shut, and his eyes glazed over.

“I’m an idiot.”

“Yep.”

“What if I’m too late? Why would he still be interested in me now? I’ve already led him on and pushed him away. Twice.”

Charlie snorted. “Have you even been listening to me? Dean’s good at what he does for a reason. He’s friendly, outgoing, loyal as shit, and when he attaches himself to someone, he doesn’t do it halfway. Dean’s got it _bad_. He’s been walking around all week looking more like a sad dog than any of the four-legged clients he works with. Trust me. You’re not too late.”

Cas smiled a little at the image Charlie painted. “What do you suggest I do then?”

Charlie’s grin lit the room, and a mischievous gleam entered her eyes as she leaned forward.

“I have an idea.”

 

* * *

 

Over the next four days, Cas found himself incredibly grateful Dean had been harebrained enough to tailor his entire wardrobe. Even if he hadn’t kept records of Dean’s measurements from his first visit, he now had all of Dean’s proportions perfectly memorized. He knew all the quirks of his shape, like his beautifully bowed legs and how best to compensate for them to highlight only the best of his qualities -- of which there were many.

He found himself at his drafting table in the shop long after hours -- his daytime business had picked up steadily as word of mouth had worked its magic, as well as the continued policy of discounts for recommendations. Two attempts had to be scrapped; it had been some time since Cas had patterned anything from scratch, and his perfectionism would settle for nothing less than his absolute best work.

He’d spent even more time at his computer, much less confident of his skills here, typing or, more often, deleting words he’d already typed. He could not afford to use the wrong words, or leave something unsaid because he didn’t know how to say it. He was not a writer, and often his inability to make the words polished and meaningful made him get up and pace, heedless of the clock that told him he had to open his shop again in six hours.

Finally, in the middle of the afternoon on the fifth day, as he stared at the page of text in front of him, he realized he was stalling. If he wasn’t ready now, he never would be.

He saved the file, checked to be sure that the parcel was wrapped as it should be, and pulled out his phone to call Charlie.

“Excellent. I’ll be there in thirty minutes to pick it up. I’ll drop it off when he’s done with his clients for the day.”

“Thank you, Charlie,” Cas said, nerves making his words shorter than he intended. He paused and took a deep breath. Even if it doesn’t work, I appreciate the effort. You’re a good friend. To both Dean and myself.”

Charlie laughed. “No need to sound like you’re going to your doom, Novak. Don’t worry. It’ll work.”

When Cas hung up, he checked the linen garment bag one last time. He prayed all the measurements were right. He knew they were. But it made him anxious to not be able to double check.

As he watched Charlie bicycle away, garment bag slung over her shoulder, a lump of panic rose in his throat. He had no choice now. Everything was in motion. He took a deep breath that did nothing to calm him and settled down behind his desk, ready with a brittle smile for the next customer who walked through the door.

 

* * *

 

 

What Dean really wanted was an ice-cold beer, but he’d neglected his grocery shopping that week and had to settle for water. He lowered himself onto the edge of his bed, valiantly trying to pretend the water was the beverage he actually wanted, and was reaching for the remote to turn on the television and drown out his thoughts for the rest of the evening when a knock sounded at his door.

“Who is it?” he called.

“Charlie!” was the response.

Dean blinked in surprise as he rose from the bed, pacing the few steps to the door and yanking it open. “What’re you doing here?” he asked, possibly a bit harshly.

“Delivery,” Charlie responded with a smile, thrusting the garment bag out in front of her.

Oh. Dean’s heart sank. He’d hoped that with the excuse of going back to the shop one more time to pick up the last few things he’d left there, he’d have had one last chance to try and fix things with Cas. He’d been putting it off, trying to work up the nerve and the right words, and his clothes had been sitting there. Apparently Cas had other ideas. “Do I owe you?” Dean asked, reaching for his wallet.

Charlie’s brow furrowed. “Of course not. This wasn’t official courier stuff. Just a favor.”

A favor? Dean twisted that in his mind for a moment to make sense of it, but abandoned it when Charlie cocked her head to the side and asked, “Why the long face?”

Dean let out a sigh in a long whoosh, reaching to hang the garment bag on the coat hook by the door. “One of my charges – the corgi? I told you about her?” At Charlie’s nod, he shook his head. “She’s pregnant. How she got that way, nobody actually knows – or will admit it – but the pregnancy isn’t going well. She’s old for it. She needs regular vet visits and Jess isn’t sure if she’ll be all right. And the owners aren’t sure they want the expense of it all.” He bit back the flare of irritation. “I don’t know what else to do aside from tell them I’ll pay for it out of my own pocket.”

“Oh.” Charlie bit her lip and, oddly, her eyes flicked to the side, in the direction of the coat hook. “I’m sorry, Dean. That sucks.”

Dean shrugged. There wasn’t much else to say to that. “Thanks for the delivery.”

“No problem.” Charlie held up a fist for him to bump. “I hope everything works out.”

“Thanks,” Dean repeated, and waved as Charlie took a step back and headed back down the hall.

The garment bag fell to the floor as Dean tried to push it to the side to close the door, and Dean sighed. He supposed he should put everything away. He stooped to pick it up when a slip of yellow paper pinned to the outside of the linen bag caught his eye. An invoice?

The prospect of possibly having the chance to go back to the shop and settle his account – possibly more than just a monetary account – made him rip off the slip with unseemly haste and unfold the paper.

 

_Dean,_  
 _I’m worried that I’m too late, and that I can’t mend what’s already happened. But if you’d like to try and start over, meet me Friday night at the corner of Ninth and Cherry._  
 _\- Cas  
_ _P.S. Whether you come or not, the suit is yours to keep. No one will be able to wear it like you._

 

Dean stared at the paper, heart stuttering. Tomorrow night? Start over?

Suit?

Suspicion dawning, Dean unzipped the garment bag with slightly shaking hands to reveal a rich, dark blue wool. The gray pinstripes were dark enough to nearly be invisible. As Dean pulled the hanger from the fabric of the bag, he could instantly see that this was not the boxy style of business suit he’d seen in stores, but something much more fitted, the lines of it a subtle sophistication that reminded Dean so much of the tailor that he had to swallow hard around a lump in his throat. His eyes caught at the black label at the back of the neck and he blanched at the simple white block letters there: NOVAK.

Custom. The suit had been built completely from scratch. For him.

It didn’t take him long to shuck off the flannel shirt and jeans he was wearing, don a dress shirt, and slip into the coat and trousers. He marvelled as he buttoned the coat. He’d thought his other suit had felt good, but this made him wish he had a full-length mirror.

He ran his hands over the fine wool and it struck him how much time Cas must have put into this, how much attention to detail – how much Cas had paid attention to _him_ , his build, his every movement, to be able to craft something that flowed and draped him this perfectly. Something enormous threatened to burst from his chest and he took another breath to try and calm it.

He needed to go buy a tie to go with this immediately. Because there was no doubt that he would wear it tomorrow night.

 

* * *

 

 

Cas had just put the finishing touches on his setup when he heard footsteps approaching. Scrambling, he moved to hide himself behind a wide oak to the right of the gazebo he was currently standing in.

Taking a deep breath, Cas clicked the small remote in his hand, igniting the strands of fairy lights that had been strategically placed over the poles and archways of the gazebo. The glow illuminated a small, elegant table for two, complete with wine glasses and candle sticks.

He heard the footsteps stop suddenly and a quick gasp from the man on the other side of the tree.

Steadying the worst of his nerves, but not quite managing to banish the trembling in his hands, Cas stepped out from behind the tree.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Cas?” Dean asked, his eyes full of questions, caution, and a small spark of hope.

Cas had worked on the words. He’d had four days to do it. With every line of the pattern, with every stitch placed into the fabric Dean now wore, he’d tried to come up with words to match the intention he’d put into the garment that now graced the man in front of him. He took a moment to appreciate that he’d done well in that at least. The suit fit Dean like a glove. Looking at Dean standing there in front of him now, Cas was absolutely certain that if he’d left things to his memory, he’d have no chance of verbalizing everything that he needed to say.

He swallowed and found his voice. “The suit looks good on you.”

Dean took a breath. “Yeah. It does.” He looked down at himself, then back up, perplexed. “Why?”

Suddenly resenting the distance that still separated them, Cas stepped forward close into Dean’s personal space. He still resisted touching the man in front of him, unsure of how welcome such a move would be.

He looked up into Dean’s impossibly green eyes as he answered. “It was brought to my attention that I was being a complete idiot. And I thought maybe it was best we started over. In the interest of fairness, I thought this time around, we might meet where _you_ work. But since you don’t have a traditional workplace setting, Charlie suggested the dog park might be the most appropriate.”

Dean tossed a half-hearted scowl over his shoulder and Cas heard him mutter, “Traitor,” under his breath. The nerves in his stomach kicked up another notch. Was Dean angry? Only one way to find out.

“Dean, would you like to have dinner with me?”

Dean looked at the setting in front of him and then down at the suit he was wearing. His hand brushed gently over the sleeve as he examined the craftsmanship more closely before looking back up at Cas.

When their eyes met, Cas hated the lingering pain still clear in their depths.

“Are you _sure_ , Cas? I can’t -- I can’t do this again. I really like you. But I can’t live on this roller coaster. I need to know. Do you really want this? You aren’t just gonna change your mind tomorrow morning and bolt?”

Cas winced, but knew the question was more than fair. Instead of answering directly, he reached out and pinched the fabric of Dean’s sleeve. Miraculously, as he felt the wool between his fingertips, the words printed on the folded page in his jacket pocket sprung to the front of his mind, just as he’d rehearsed them.

“When you tailor something, you’re altering something that’s already been created. You can add a seam here or there to make it fit better, but it’s never going to fit just right. The lines have already been cut. Decisions have been made before you ever lay eyes on the material. If there’s a flaw in the design, even the most brilliant workmanship can’t always cover it up.

“When you start from scratch, you have infinitely more flexibility, especially when you know who you are creating the clothing for. Every line has thought, every cut has meaning. The process is about enhancing the things you love rather than hiding the things you don’t.”

Cas looked up at Dean, his stare intent as he tried to impart the significance of what he was trying to say.

“Before, I was trying to figure out how to tailor us together. I couldn’t make it work. The fit wasn’t right. The pattern flawed by my fear that I couldn’t have both you and maintain my professionalism. I was just as guilty as the people who argued that my personal life affected my business. I let them dictate my thoughts to the point that it made their accusations true. _I_ couldn’t separate the two.”

He smiled softly and reached up tentatively to cup Dean’s cheek, still not completely sure he was allowed. But Dean just leaned into the touch, listening intently to what Cas was saying.

“I wanted to start from scratch, Dean. That’s what this is. This, what I want between us, it’s not something that’s tailored. It’s something separate. It’s something that we build between us, together, if you’re still willing.”

Dean stared, and Cas swallowed, his heart racing, muscles tense. That had felt far more stilted and labored than he’d meant it. It had looked so good when it had been on paper. Dean would think he was crazy.

But then Dean smiled, “You know. This suit does fit me way better than the first. I think I could be convinced to wear this one more often.”

Cas grinned, relief spreading through him. “Good, because I think you happen to look damn good in a suit.”

Dean raised an eyebrow and smirked. “Is that your professional opinion?”

“No, it’s the opinion of a man hoping you’ll join him for dinner.”

Dean leaned forward and placed a light, chaste kiss against Cas’s lips. “Flattery will get you everywhere,” he said before stepping back slightly and gesturing with his arm. “Lead the way.”

Cas could not suppress the giant relieved grin as they moved up the steps to the gazebo.

Unlike their impromptu lunch gone – not wrong, but certainly not as _planned_ – they spent the meal talking, laughing and taking the opportunity to get to know each other. At one point, a bulb had blown on one of the lights, plunging them into a temporary darkness, save for the candles on the table.

Cas had sworn under his breath, irritated that anything had interrupted this chance to start fresh. But as he stood on a chair, fixing the line, Dean had just laughed and said something about angels, an old woman named Josie and the dog park. The sound of Dean’s unreserved laughter had filled Cas with warmth and he couldn’t regret the snag in the evening, especially when Dean had helped him down and drew him in for another kiss, this one less chaste, but still not seeking anything more than closeness. They seemed to have come to an unspoken agreement to move more slowly this time around as they figured out how to make this new thing between them fit.

Despite that, Cas still found himself waking the next morning leaning against Dean’s shoulder as the first rays of the sun brought Dean’s freckles into sharp relief. At some point in the night, Dean had helped Cas take down the table and lights and move them back to his tiny apartment, but neither had been willing to say goodbye. Instead, they’d sat back down on the couch and talked until they’d both fallen asleep.

As he watched Dean, Cas felt a new contentment settle over him. Whatever happened next, they would make the adjustments together.


	5. epilogue

Dean was whistling as he slid the last button through the hole on his new waistcoat, a rich beige twill that Cas had absolutely had to do something with or Dean was fairly sure he’d have imploded. There were definite perks to having a tailor as a boyfriend, especially one who considered Dean to be the perfect mannequin.

His whistling perked up the ears of Ty and Richie, the corgi-and-something mix puppies by the door, and Ty let Dean know with a bark that was still more of a squeak that Dean was taking far too long primping and he had promised them a walk a whole five minutes ago.

“I’m coming,” Dean said, letting out a tiny laugh as he clipped leashes to their harnesses. At twelve weeks, they were still learning the basics of obedience, and he’d already had one note from his landlord rather pointedly reminding Dean of the building’s pet policy, but Dean was confident he could hold out until the end of the month, when his lease ended and he’d be moving into another little apartment over a tailor shop, eight blocks away. Butter, he was sure, would have some definite opinions about her new roommates, but Cas assured him they would eventually come to a truce.

“All right, boys,” he said, slinging a gray canvas satchel -– also a product of Cas’s recent creative frenzy -– over his shoulder. “Let’s go say hi to your mama.”

He’d have to swing by the deli on the way to Cas’s shop, he reminded himself. Since Cas had partnered with the new high-end men’s boutique for their bespoke needs a month back, Cas was often so busy he’d forget to eat if Dean didn’t stop by and force him to take a breather.

And Dean had received another wedding invitation in the mail, this one to Charlie and Dorothy’s wedding, which he and Cas had already known about ever since Charlie had brought Dorothy into Cas’s shop to ask if he would help design her suit. Dean grinned at the memory of Cas’s eyes lighting up at the prospect.

He was fairly certain the small detail that there would be a wedding to attend had slipped Cas’s mind in the excitement. But he was also fairly certain that this time, Cas wouldn’t turn him down. 


End file.
